A Fly in the Garden
by Aalon
Summary: The fourth tale in the Different Road Taken AU, this story picks up a few weeks after LISTEN, and roughly a month after the conclusion of Out of the Forest and Into the Woods. Young Women are going missing in the Bay Area, which begins to impact the Castles Complex in Sausalito.
1. Chapter 1

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Thursday, February 16, 2012 – 12:47 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Sausalito Home**_

Richard Castle sits on a bar stool in his kitchen, looking out through the massive bay windows through the living room at the bay area surroundings. He is deep in thought. Good thoughts. It was a nice evening last night.

Alexis has settled in well. She graduates in four short months. And she has met a boy. Justin. Seems nice enough. Not entirely harmless, because he is an eighteen year old senior in high school. But he's polite. He's got manners. He opens doors. He seems to treat Alexis nicely.

" _It could be worse,"_ he grumbles to himself, as he watches Kate sashay throughout his kitchen, going from cabinet to cabinet. He knows he should tell her where the small vegetable storage containers are, but right now the view – the show she is unknowingly giving him – is just far too good to interrupt.

" _She's been here two months, she should know where it is,"_ he justifies to himself with a smirk. No way is he going to interrupt this show.

It's these moments, these simple, innocent but seductive moments that thrill him, that surprise him, that leave him wanting more and more of this woman. They both knew it would be good. Hell, she told him as much four years ago. Then she made him wait four . . . long . . . years.

And these two months have been so, so worth it.

She turns to ask him where the containers are – finally – and catches him with a half-open mouth staring at her ass, which she has squeezed tightly into a pair of blue jeans.

"See something interesting?" she asks with a smile.

"Always," is his simple – and predictable – response. And now he allows his eyes to rise, meeting hers, and he holds her gaze just a second too long for her comfort – still.

"Castle – you know how –"

"Creepy that is," he finishes for her, smiling. "Yes, I know. You tell me every day. And every day – like today – I will tell you to get used to it. I love looking at you. I love looking at all of you. I love what your eyes do when they look at me. So no, it's not creepy, my lovely Beckett, P.I. It's unavoidable."

She throws the dish towel at his face, and he does nothing to avoid the impact. It lands just to the side of his head, and hangs there. He slowly removes it, giving her yet another smile, when she hops up on the counter top in front of him, and scoots back a couple of feet, placing her right foot in front of him.

"Two more to go, lover boy," she smiles with a purr. He chuckles as he reaches across the counter island and grabs the bottle of nail polish. It's Ogre the Top Blue, his favorite color on her, and he can't help but think again that this, too, is one of those moments he never saw coming. Kate Beckett not only allowing him to put nail polish on her toes, but actually enjoying it, actually looking forward to it. She seems to sense his thoughts.

"I know, Rick," she says softly, and his eyes catch hers once again. And once again, it's a second too long.

"Castle," she says as he finally breaks the gaze with a soft laugh, and begins brushing the blue polish on her last remaining toes. It takes about four minutes. Longer than it should, they both know. But they both know how insanely intimate these little moments are. They hold on to these moments. They fiercely treasure these moments . . .

. . . and, of course, his cell phone rings.

It's Wendy. Her ring tone is set to Bachman Turner Overdrive's _You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet_. Wendy Skylans is a throwback to the 1970's, stuck in that time period in almost every way possible. Everything from the clothes she wears to the music she listens to, to the slowly-being-refurbished 1974 Dodge Charger she drives harkens back to those days.

"What's up Wendy?" he asks jovially, answering her on the speakerphone.

"New guest just came in," Wendy replies. It is their first new guest in almost two weeks, which is a bit of a record for their new establishment. Both he and Kate will later admit to a small bit of guilt for the rush of excitement they both feel. A new guest means another woman battered who is getting away. That shouldn't cause excitement, but both figure it is something akin to what they used to feel in New York, when a body would drop.

It doesn't make sense, but it just kind of is what it is.

"Everything okay with it?" Kate asks, just to make sure there are no unusual problems.

"Everything is cool," the campus manager replies. "I just know that you want to know any time someone checks in, and it's been a while since we've had someone new."

Both Kate and Castle nod their heads.

"I'm just about finished up here," he whispers to the woman sitting atop his counter top, and she is already lifting herself off, putting up two fingers and then five fingers.

"We will be getting out of here in about twenty five minutes, Wendy," he tells Skylans. "Be there within the hour for certain."

"Gotcha, boss man," Wendy says as she signs off.

Exactly fifty-three minutes later, Castle and Kate pull up to the security gate at the Castles Complex, as Jeremy rings the gate open. Kate gives the man a friendly salute as Castle powers the sports car up to the administrative building. Seconds later, the two are walking into the building, into a lively exchange between Wendy and Colin Alexander.

"I'm telling you it's never nothing," Colin tells the woman. "Everything is interconnected here," he says as he glances at Castle and Kate walk through the door.

"What's up?" Castle offers as a friendly hello to two of his now new 'old' friends. It's only been a few months, yet everyone has finally settled in to this new makeshift work family, and the predictable squabbles – friendly enough – are a welcome sight.

"She's with Dr. Peraza now," Wendy replies, pointing to the hall down the left corridor of the administration building.

"Who is?" Kate asks.

"Her name is Pamela Hamilton," Wendy continues. "Checked in just under two hours ago. She is a nurse at San Francisco General."

"Dr. Sam will fill you in," Colin adds, now offering a wink to Wendy as he grabs his bottle of Sprite Zero and walks toward the door, fiddling with his on-grounds mobile unit which is now squawking at him incessantly, knowing that Dawn is calling. He always refers to Dr. Samantha Peraza simply as 'Dr. Sam'.

A moment later, Castle and his companion are standing behind the one-way window, watching and listening in to the admissions interview with one Pamela Hamilton. Samantha hasn't flipped the privacy switch which she uses at her discretion during these initial interviews, which tells them that she has no problems with them listening in at this point. Lindy Matthews is already in the room and glances over at them, nodding in satisfaction.

" _That didn't take long,"_ she muses to herself with a smile. She likes Kate. A lot. But of all of the team members here at the Castles, she is the one who wondered – worried – whether or not Kate Beckett's re-inclusion into Richard Castle's life would diminish his passion for this. Would he still make time for this with the same priority? She'd heard the stories from Alexis during their brief encounters, and, Mike Monroe's assurances aside, she still has had her doubts. These last four weeks have done much to alleviate her fears.

Kate is the first to speak.

"What's her story?" which brings a smile of pride to Castle's face. She has taught him well over the years, but it has been mutual. She has learned from him that there is _always_ a story, and finding that story is usually the beginning of solving anything – if there is anything to be solved, that is.

Lindy speaks in a low volume, which only heightens her already deep voice. She doesn't want to miss anything important from the other room.

"Cliff notes version," she begins. "Pamela Hamilton, 43 years old, RN at San Francisco General for seventeen years. Married to Thomas Hamilton, local entrepreneur in technology. They've been married twenty-one years. No history of marital problems we can see. None that she has mentioned. The opposite in fact."

"Why is she here then?" Castle asks aloud.

"Getting there," Lindy whispers, glancing back at the window for a second, and then back to Castle to answer his question.

"They have an eighteen year old daughter named Grayson. Grayson went missing January 25th, almost four weeks ago. Since that time, it has been edgy at home, and edgy has turned violent in the past two weeks. Each of them blames the other for her disappearance. She had told him to pick their daughter up from the concert at the Fillmore. He was too tired from a long day of work, and she was headed to her night shift. Grayson ends up taking the bus home from the concert, but never came home. She had taken a couple of transfers but never made it home.

"How do you know about the transfers?" Kate asks, now immediately morphed into detective mode.

"Text messages from Grayson to Pamela," Lindy replies quickly. "The first couple of weeks were fine – as fine as they could be all things considered. But in the last ten or so days, things have turned violent at the house. They are fighting – literally. Pamela actually says she thinks she was probably the instigator. She started hitting Tom and things just finally escalated out of control. He apparently lost it last night."

"How did she get away?" Castle asks. "How'd she get here?"

"That's the interesting part," Lindy replies without looking at either. Her gaze is focused on the two women in the other room. "He brought her here. Last night. Asked us to take care of her."

Two pair of eyebrows rise at this news, and neither Kate nor Castle say another word, as Lindy grows silent. The three watch the remaining ten minutes of Dr. Samantha's initial interview to in-process Pamela Hamilton into the Castles.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Thursday, February 16, 2012 – 6:01 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Sausalito Home**_

Kate Beckett sits with her feet propped up on the ottoman in the den, relaxing with a slice of pineapple chicken pizza in her hand. She gazes at the chunks of pineapple before taking another large devouring bite, savoring the flavor. She reaches across to pick up the wine cooler. Beside her sits Richard Castle, who is equally lost in his little slice of heaven.

They have left the Castles complex early today, as it has been a relatively quiet afternoon there. Their guests are settled in, and in truth, Kate's mind is elsewhere. According to the team at the site, there has been no sight of Tom Hamilton since he dropped his wife off. He hasn't been back to the site, nor has he called. For two days. She finds this odd, since he is the one who dropped her off, and up to this point, their marriage had seemed as normal as any.

Both of them, however, are pulled out of their own thoughts as the local newscast begins, blasting from the large screen on the wall.

"We begin our broadcast this evening with news of yet another missing girl here in the Bay Area. Tamara McNeil, age nineteen, was reported missing this morning by her father, Arlington McNeil. According to Mr. McNeil, Tamara as last seen downtown on Geary Street at the bus stop near the St. Francis hotel, where she had just finished her shift."

The rest of the news story is lost on the pair, as both have stopped chewing and swallowing, now absorbed in the story, staring at the image of a beautiful young black woman. Two days ago a woman gets admitted into their facility. The primary reason for her admission is a marriage literally crashing on the rocks – physically – because of the reactions of the couple to their daughter going missing. And now, two days later, another girl is missing. They cannot help but think of Grayson Hamilton.

"Interesting that she is black," Kate offers aloud.

"Huh?" Castle grunts. "Why is that interesting?"

"Because statistically speaking, television coverage of minorities who go missing is lacking by the media," she replies. It was a revelation she received from Lanie Parish while in New York City. "It's a phenomenon only now really being discussed – and not enough. I'm just . . . pleased to see this coverage, given what I have experienced on the east coast."

"Shouldn't matter," Castle finally grumbles, before realizing that he has rarely – if ever – seen coverage of a missing minority.

"Agree wholeheartedly," she replies, taking a swallow from her wine cooler. "Aside from race – don't you think this is . . . strange, Castle? I mean, yeah I know the numbers. At any time, some thirty to forty thousand women are missing in the United States at any time. But –"

"But there are no coincidences," he continues for her. "I don't know if this is the universe trying to tell us something, but there has to be a reason we just met Pamela Hamilton and heard her story about her daughter, and now we hear this story . . ."

He tails off, as she leans her head into his shoulder.

"There's always a story with you," she smiles.

"The answer is always _in_ the story," he smiles in return.

"But what is the _question_?" she asks, as they now have settled into a familiar – and efficient – routine. "What is the question we should be asking ourselves here?

They are quiet for a moment, mulling over her question. They continue eating their pizza in silence, Kate now leaned forward over the ottoman, her eyes drifting around the room. Castle remains leaning back into the cushions, his eyes closed, a story forming in his mind.

Suddenly, Kate takes out her phone, and pulls up a contact, hitting SEND. A few seconds pass before she begins speaking again.

"Jen," she begins, "how goes it?"

Detective Jennifer Blackard from the San Francisco Police Department sits back in her chair in the Mission precinct.

"Finishing paperwork, Kate," she tells her friend.

"Still at the office, I see" Kate realizes. "Should I call back?"

"If you like me at all, please give me a reason to put this stuff down," Jennifer laughs, and Kate laughs with her.

"A question," Kate begins. "Castle and I are sitting here watching television, watching the news and –"

"You didn't call to brag to me about your cush life with the cute writer-turned-philanthropist did you, Kate?" Jennifer chuckles.

"No, not this time," Kate smiles in return. "I wish. Actually, it is about a missing woman. Tamara . . .?"

Kate looks questioningly at Castle who fills in the last name.

"McNeil," he says.

"McNeil," Kate continues. "This is the second young woman we have heard that has gone missing in three days. I know the statistics but that seems a lot even for –"

She doesn't finish her sentence, as Jennifer interrupts.

"Eleven."

Kate pauses, and then takes a breath. Surely she didn't hear this right.

"What?"

"Eleven," Jennifer repeats. "She is the eleventh young woman to go missing in the past five months since Labor Day."

"What?" Kate repeats, the disbelief clearly evident in her voice. How in the world do eleven girls go missing in such a short period of time? And how have she and Castle been here and not heard anything about this?

"How do that many girls go missing and nothing –"

Jennifer interrupts her yet again.

"Not girls, Kate. Young women. Girls is a misnomer," her detective friend tells her. "In pretty much every case, these are young women, not girls. Their ages range from 18 to 23 years old. They are all beautiful. Right now they are being classified as runaways or just missing persons, but, Kate - not one of them – not a single one – has a reason to run away."

"City Hall," Kate muses aloud with disgust, now placing the call on her speakerphone for Castle to listen in. "The alternative is politically difficult."

"I agree," Jen tells her, "as do most of my colleagues. But you know how it is and who controls media coverage. All of these young women are successful in whatever they have been doing, whether it is as a student in a post-college job. No boyfriend problems, no husband problems."

"You suspect trafficking," Kate says. It is not a question. Castle's eyebrows raise, now thinking of Grayson Hamilton. If they are thinking it, then certainly her parents have thought this. And yes, just thinking about something like that for one's daughter can probably cause things at home to deteriorate quickly. He frowns as he leans in closer to listen.

"Yes, we suspect some type of human trafficking, but the streets are completely silent on the matter," Jen continues, which Kate realizes is odd.

"You're sure?" Kate asks.

"There is no underground buzz about girls going missing, about anyone looking for young women. Nothing at all."

For a few seconds both sides are quiet. It is Castle who finally interrupts the silence.

"Well, you are a private investigator," he reminds her with a smile.

"Jen, we need to do lunch or dinner. I can be there tomorrow before noon."

Detective Blackard considers this for a moment, then makes her decision.

"Not here," she tells Kate. "There is a small diner – Mel's – off Geary Street."

"Near Anza, right?" Castle chimes in.

"That's the one, Rick," Jennifer replies. "Let's keep this away from the eyes and ears here for now. They've got a tight lid on this and I don't want to be viewed as a leak."

"Gotcha," Kate nods. "Noon?"

"See you then," Blackard tells her, and then quickly adds before signing off.

"And Kate . . . this could get ugly."

"I know, Jen," Kate replies solemnly. "I know."

She glances over at Castle, who is already standing and moving toward the door leading out of the den to the rest of the house.

"Where are you going?" she asks, but she already knows the answer. She knows how he thinks.

"Back to the complex," he answers as he watches stand up, gathering her plate and wine cooler bottle. He knows she is following.

"We need to talk with Pamela Hamilton again," he tells her as he leaves the den room.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Friday, February 19, 2012 – 12:03 p.m. – At Mel's Diner in San Francisco on Geary Street**_

Mel's Diner is a throwback to a long-ago era, serving breakfast and burgers and sandwiches, of course. But it's the shakes, the fountain drinks, the malts – and of course – the atmosphere that attracts locals year-round. Richard Castle and Kate Beckett sit here with Detective Jennifer Blackard, as planned. The only change is that Alexis has joined them. She's on a four day weekend for President's Day, and Mel's is one of her favorite spots in the city.

"Pineapple shakes?" Jennifer snickers approvingly, gazing at the large glass sitting in front of Richard Castle.

"I told you," Kate laughs, but a punch in the arm doesn't allow her to finish her comparison of a glucose-infused adolescent with the man who sits beside her.

"Best in the world with a good burger," Castle smiles, defending himself. "And you can get both of those here."

"True, true," the detective smiles again, as she watches him take a large slurp of the tropical shake.

"So what's the story with you two?" Jennifer asks suddenly, causing a small gulp from Castle and a smirk from her old friend. Both give her a round of nervous laughter.

"Are you engaged?"

"No," Kate replies.

"Are you serious?" Jen asks.

"Absolutely," Castle replies quickly.

"And how long has this been going on? How long have you been going out?"

They both laugh, knowing that it really depends on who you ask.

"Some would say a couple of months," Castle replies easily.

"But we've kind of danced around it for a bit," Kate adds, smiling at Castle.

"What's a bit?" Jennifer asks, now sensing blood in the water. Her smile is not all-together calming. Not at all.

"Around two years or so," Kate tells her.

"Wow, that's a lot of dancing," Jennifer exclaims, holding a smile back that threatens to crack her face in half. Now she gets a wee more serious.

"I like you Rick," she tells him. "I just want to know what your intentions are with my friend here."

"That's funny," Alexis says, joining the conversation with a playful smirk. "I just want to know what her intentions are with my dad."

"Well, at least we know where the lines are drawn," Castle says, and the table erupts in laughter. It is short lived, as they soon get down to business.

"So, tell us what you know about Grayson Hamilton," Kate begins, and immediately the San Francisco detective offers a quick glance at the young red-headed teenager at the table.

"She's fine," Castle tells her quickly. "If there are young women going missing in the area, then I want Alexis fully prepped and aware." Jennifer nods in understanding, and begins.

"Over a month ago – she went to a concert, ended up taking a bus home. Never made it. That's what we know, believe it or not," she tells them, and the frustration is evident in her voice and on her face.

"Pamela Hamilton didn't give us much more," Kate tells her. "We do know that she transferred a couple of times. Her text messages tell us that much."

"Yes, we knew that as well," Blackard agrees. "The only pattern we have noticed is that – in many of the cases – buses are involved."

"Many? But not all?" Castle asks.

"In nine of the cases we know of, the women got on a bus. That was the last they were seen," Jennifer replies.

"What about the other two cases?" Kate asks.

"Nothing firm," replies Jennifer, brushing a hand through her hair. "They could have been on a bus or not. We just don't have any information. They just vanished."

"People don't just vanish," Castle remarks. He is skeptical right now. Something isn't fitting. It's like the story has a blank page. Blank pages don't just appear.

"I know that, I know that," the SFPD detective agrees. "Believe me, we all want to solve this?"

"Are you sure, Jen?" Kate asks. "I mean, has anyone important to anyone of power been taken? Because that's all it takes, you know this. Get one daughter of a mayor or a police chief or a city councilperson taken – and then all of the sudden, things start happening."

"I know what you mean – but no," Blackard replies. "All just regular people. Business people. Taxpayers. Their daughters gone."

"Well, if the last place most of them were seen was on a bus, then that brings up a few possibilities," Kate continues.

"Yes, we are working options there," Jennifer tells them.

"What options?" Alexis asks. She's cognizant of the fact that Detective Blackard letting her even be a part of this conversation is a significant allowance on her part. She's trying to stay in listen mode as much as she can.

"Well, first," Blackard tells her, looking her directly in the eyes, "San Francisco MUNI is somehow involved in the abduction of young ladies."

"That sounds preposterous just hearing it," Kate objects, and Jennifer nods her head in agreement.

"I know, Kate –"

"Well, maybe not so preposterous," Castle remarks pensively.

"Uh oh," Kate chuckles, drawing a smile from Alexis. "I sense a writer's mind reappearing here."

"Your keen detective sense is spot on, as usual," Castle smiles in return.

"What are you thinking, Rick?" Jennifer asks.

"Just musing aloud," he replies. "Don't let me interrupt you, Detective Blackard. Keep going. What other options?"

Clearly, however, Castle is mulling something over. Both his daughter and his new love have seen this face, this preoccupation. Kate, knowing him well enough, decides to let him work it out. Richard Castle is never one to be shy about spouting wild opinions and ideas, so she knows this is something for him to give such serious consideration to without talking it out loud.

"Another option is someone is trolling the buses, looking for potential victims," Jennifer continues.

"That sounds far more likely," Kate agrees. "Any timeframe when we think the women are being abducted?"

"That much we do know," Jennifer tells them. "Virtually every disappearance occurs late at night, or in the wee hours of the morning."

Castle is quiet, mulling over this new information as Claire, the waitress, arrives with a full platter of food. After burgers and a patty melt sandwich are handed out, the group begins to eat. For the next few minutes, all four have taken a sabbatical from their discussion, but their minds still race while eating.

Kate is the first to bring the discussion back to the forefront.

"Okay, so whoever is doing this is picking off women – alone – and at a time when there probably aren't a lot of people around."

"No witnesses," agrees Jennifer.

"They are catching them either getting on or getting off the buses," Kate continues.

"Which means you should be looking at bus stops," Alexis chimes in. "Or bars at bus stops." All three adults stare at her for a moment.

"What? What?" Alexis asks, her eyes going from face to face as each breaks into an appreciative smile.

"Well, are you?" Kate finally asks.

"More or less, Kate," Jennifer replies, a little embarrassed. "Kate, between buses and trolleys and light rail . . . there are thousands of bus stops. There are over two million riders a year on MUNI. You want the proverbial needle in a haystack analogy, it is the San Francisco MUNI system. Looking at bus stops? Staking out bus stops? A better solution would be to put someone on the buses themselves."

"Why don't you?" Castle asks, finally rejoining the conversation.

"Because most of the buses already have video surveillance, and MUNI contracts with armed security guards to protect their fare collectors," Jennifer responds. "Most important, however, is the sheer amount of money to put security personnel on the more than seven or eight hundred buses in use."

"People are getting kidnapped," Kate remarks dryly.

"Yes," Jennifer continues, "but as you already noted, no one that comes from big money. No one that would cause the necessary outcry from someone with the funds to do something like that."

Kate nods, while noting the look of horror on Alexis' face. While Kate is no stranger to the limited budgets that police departments must operate within, the young girl is getting a lesson in City Budgets and Bureaucracy 101. To hear that the public transportation falls in that same category is no revelation at all.

All fall quiet again for a moment, lost in thought and in delicious burgers and shakes. Castle finally breaks the drought.

"Well, we won't solve this all today," he begins. He doesn't want to say more until he sees data. He needs to confirm something pricking at the back of his head.

"Can I ask a favor though, Detective Blackard?" he continues. "Since this has now reached its tentacles to the Castles, our complex in Sausalito, and impacted one of my guests – is there an official or unofficial way Kate and I can see the data that you have? Specifically each of the people taken, and the last known locations or things they were doing?"

Detective Jennifer Blackard smiles, reaching into her large purse.

"You didn't think I came here to lunch empty handed, did you?"

 _ **Friday, February 19, 2012 – 8:49 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Sausalito Home**_

The couple sits on the large balcony overlooking the waters separating Sausalito from the San Francisco peninsula. Each holds a wine glass in their hands. They've been munching on snacks, delaying their departure for one of the local restaurants now for the past hour. Instead, they simply enjoy the silence, the company.

Alexis is out with friends and won't be back for a while. Castle is about ready to throw in the towel for dinner this evening when a large growl penetrates through Kate's blouse in her stomach region, casing both to break out into laughter. Castle uses this moment to finally touch on something that has been on his mind since their earlier discussion at Mel's.

"Jennifer asked some good questions, you know," he begins.

"She's a detective," Kate remarks with a soft smile. "We kind of do that, you know."

"I was talking about her questions regarding you and I," he corrects her. "My intentions for you? Remember?"

"How can I forget?" she laughs.

"You do know that engagement, marriage, family – all of that is what I want for us," he remarks, surprising her with his sudden candor. "You do know that, don't you?"

She turns to gaze at him directly, smiling.

"Yes, it's what I want, too."

"Good, good. Just want to make sure," he nods happily. "We haven't really talked about it in the past couple of weeks. And I'm okay with that, because we are kind of dating now, learning more and more about each other and –"

"Still test driving your new toy, eh Castle?" she kids.

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?

"Never," she chuckles, now nibbling on his ear.

"I'm in no rush, Rick," she continues, letting him off the hook. "I am enjoying this . . . you're right, it's just dating. Something we never did. I mean, I don't want to be sitting here a year from now in the same situation with nothing changed, but I know we need to take time."

"Thank you," he tells her, and he can tell that the relief on his face is slightly concerning her. He rushes to put her fears to rest.

"I've been married twice. You know this. Neither took. Now if you ask me why the marriages failed, I would tell you one thing. Meredith or Gina would say something else. The truth is somewhere in the middle. And I need to find that middle, Kate. To see where I screwed up. To see what I did wrong. So I don't repeat those mistakes with you."

"It's not all you, Rick," she says laughing. "I've been hopping from one relationship to another over the past few years – and each time I knew it wasn't what I wanted. But by the time I figured that out, I was in knee deep. And they were comfortable."

"It's hard to break out of comfortable," he agrees.

"I tried, with Tom. Didn't quite work out."

"What do you mean?" he asks.

She sits up now, turning to face him. She takes another sip of the red wine, enjoying both the taste and the view.

"Two years ago – you left for the summer with Gina. I had just broken up with Tom, hoping to take you up on your offer to go to the Hamptons.

She almost – almost – enjoys the color draining from his face.

"Oh Kate, please tell me you are joking."

"I wish I were joking," she replies softly, never wavering in her gaze. "I know there is nothing we can do about it now, but had I broken it off with Tom a day earlier, or if you had waited a day before asking Gina – who knows, we might have been where we are two years ago."

For a moment, Castle is quiet, and the silence raises him to his feet as he walks along the balcony, glancing over the waters in the distance.

"No, I think things have worked out exactly as they were meant to work out," he says finally, with confidence. "Everything we have gone through, and done to each other, was – heck, I don't know – conditioning? Preparation? Laying the foundation for something special."

"Laying the foundation?" she remarks, surprise in her voice.

"Have you ever done that, Kate?" he asks. "Have you ever laid a – scratch that, have you ever watched a foundation being laid? I did that. Back in high school. Summer job upstate – working for a friend's dad. He was a homebuilder, and we laid foundations."

He is smiling with the memory, a story forming in his mind. It's a familiar place for her now. A comfortable place.

"It's a messy job, Kate, with big – and I do mean huge machinery. You have to line things off, measure precisely, build your borders, pour, spread, scrape. It doesn't happen overnight. It doesn't happen without a lot of sweat. The best part about it was the finished product. And the paycheck every week. But the work – that was hard stuff, Kate. You and I? We were hard stuff. But we were worth the finished product."

"And the paycheck," she smiles, patting him on the rear playfully.

"I know you are serious," he continues, "because you moved out here. With no promises from me, with no commitment from me. I just want you to know that that meant so much. It gave me so much hope for us. You surprised me."

"I surprised me, too," she says, and now they are both laughing again. It is something that they do easily now. The laughter turns to chuckles, the chuckles to grins. And then the silence returns.

"You're quiet," he says moments later.

"So are you."

"Where are you?" he asks her.

"Thinking about those missing women," she admits.

"Me, too," he tells her.

"I wonder why it hasn't gotten more press?" he asks aloud. "Eleven women – a broadcast here or there and then nothing – just brushed under the rug."

Sure enough, there had been no further mention of it on tonight's early evening news – which surprised both of them.

"It's too bad we aren't in New York City," she muses aloud.

"Why?" he asks, his long-dormant insecurities about longevity with Kate Beckett beginning to resurface. She seems to sense this and quickly amends her thoughts.

"It's just that if we were in New York, you would have called Bob by now, asking him why his office wasn't putting greater visibility on something like this."

He smiles. She's right of course. Were they in Manhattan, he would have called Mayor Weldon and pushed an awful lot of uncomfortable questions at his friend. Suddenly he smiles at her.

"That's a great idea," he tells her as he takes his phone out. He glances at his watch. It's almost midnight there. This will be fun. But whether intentional or not, Kate Beckett is right. Castle would be handling this differently were they on the east coast. But Bob Weldon is a social animal. The chances – the odds that he might personally know the mayor of a rival city across the country actually aren't that long. It's worth a try at least.

He chuckles as he hears the groggy voice on the other end while Kate reaches for the manila folder containing the papers provided by Detective Jennifer Blackard, ready to give them another once-over.

"Bob," Castle greets his old friend. "Surely you aren't in bed on a Friday night before midnight in the city that never sleeps."

 _ **Friday, February 19, 2012 – 11:12 p.m. – At Pier 39 on Fisherman's Wharf**_

Lisa Ward has had one drink too many as she walks out of the festive bar down on Pier 39. The tourist haunt is filled with restaurants, bars and souvenir shops, all of which have just closed some twelve minutes ago. Thankfully she – like many San Francisco citizens, didn't drive here to the Pier for dinner with friends – not with one of the best public transit systems in the world.

Her sister, Claire, has just stopped in the public restroom upstairs, leaving Lisa downstairs seated on the bench, smiling, reliving the evening. She doesn't notice the laughter from the group approaching from behind her – laughter and revelry is a common thing down here at the wharf. She does – just barely – feel the prick in her neck as she grabs for the offending device before everything goes hazy. She feels herself lifted and quickly walking – or being dragged away – by the laughter. Suddenly, she is rolling away and she vaguely realizes she is in a wheelchair. The laughter continues as she passes by tourists also departing the Pier, smiling at the slightly intoxicated young lady being pushed in a wheelchair by her friends.

A minute later, Claire walks out of the restroom, and another minute later, she is standing at the bench, turning in all directions, frantic, wondering where her younger sister has wandered off to now.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 9:07 a.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

The unmarked black car pulls up to the security gate at the secluded complex. The morning sun is already rising to the east, already a couple of hours into the sky, and a soft breeze whistles across the trees. Stan Collins usually handles the night hours at the entry gate, but for the past week he has switched to the morning shift. His eyebrows raise as the window lowers and he sees the well-known face of the passenger in the front seat across from the driver. A visit by Sandra Clooney, the mayor of San Francisco, is a first for the Castles.

"Mayor Clooney," Stan greets the two in the car.

"We're here to see Mr. Richard Castle," the driver tells him, handing him the mayor's identification credentials.

"Is he expecting you?" Stan asks, glancing down at his tablet, reviewing today's calendar.

"Yes," the mayor replies succinctly. Her office had called Castle early this morning to set up the visit. Castle had offered, of course, to come into the city, an offer the mayor had promptly refused.

"It's best if I come out to your place, Mr. Castle," the mayor had told him cryptically, and said no more after that. So here she sits in her town car awaiting passage, which is promptly granted by Collins. A minute later, the large vehicle comes to a stop at the administration building and the mayor steps out of the vehicle onto the stone sidewalk leading up to the building. Castle, already alerted to the mayor's arrival by Stan, opens the door as the mayor is still walking up the pathway. Her driver remains in the car, windows rolled up.

"Mayor Clooney," he greets her, hand extended.

"Mr. Castle," she says affably, taking his hand in a firm, rapid up and down motion. "Thank you for seeing me so quickly," she continues with a small knowing smile, "although I question how much choice I actually had in the matter."

"Bob can be . . . persuasive," Castle smiles in return as he steps out of the way, allowing the mayor to walk through the doors into the building.

"Right down this hallway," he tells her, watching her take in the foyer area with an appraising eye.

"This is an impressive place, Mr. Castle," she tells him as they walk, as she mentally recalls the drive onto the campus itself. She had heard that it is expansive and elaborate out here, but seeing it for the first time had rendered her temporarily speechless in the car – a scenario that seems to repeat itself with first-time visitors, no matter their position in life.

"Yes, well, this whole concept, the whole idea has taken on a life of its own," he tells her modestly, which she immediately refutes.

"Save the humility, Mr. Castle. This establishment is nothing short of spectacular, and sources tell me that it is doing exactly what you so boldly predicted early last year."

"Sources, eh?" he smiles, and she falls into the easy banter with the ex-author, immediately recognizing why Weldon is so fond of the man.

"We all have them, do we not?" she offers with another smile, which he reciprocates as they enter the conference room. Inside the conference room sit Kate Beckett, Mike Monroe and Detective Jennifer Blackard, who was the first call Kate made after Castle had received his phone call at 6:30 this morning from the mayor's office. That hadn't given the SFPD detective much time to get ready and get out here, so she is munching on a bagel with cream cheese as the mayor walks in, forcing her to quickly swallow and wipe her mouth.

"Mayor Clooney," Castle begins, "may I present to you Kate Beckett, ex-detective for the NYPD and currently a private investigator on our team here at the Castles."

"And your girlfriend, as I understand," the mayor adds with a nod of the head toward Kate.

"This is Mike Monroe, head of security here at the Castles," Castle continues on without missing a beat, but still smiles at Kate in reaction to the mayor's subtle jab.

"Mr. Monroe," Clooney replies with another nod of the head, then glances over at Blackard.

"Detective Blackard, how nice to see you here and involved in this," the mayor says in greeting, as the two women shake hands warmly.

"Not a lot of female detectives in the city," she tells Castle by explanation, "and certainly not many – male or female – as good as this one here." Jennifer Blackard almost blushes at the compliment. In truth, the mayor is hiding nothing, as she knows the detective from her record, and obviously taking an interest in one of her top detectives in the city that also happens to be a woman. Then she surprises the room by turning to Kate Beckett.

"I understand that the same can be said of you, ex-Detective Beckett. Bob was very clear last night that I should trust you and Mr. Castle implicitly, without hesitation. He also said you were – and I quote – 'the best damn detective in New York' before Mr. Castle spirited you away."

Now there are two blushing women in the room, as Castle and Mike Monroe work hard to control the smirks which threaten to take over their faces. The moment is short-lived as the mayor quickly gets down to business.

"I also must say that that was the extent of the cordiality of my conversation with your friend in New York, Mr. Castle," she tells Castle, now targeting him with a firm but friendly gaze. "Bob was very clear in stating that you are wondering why my office isn't doing more to uncover what is happening with our missing women out here."

"Bob is nothing if not accurate," Castle volleys back. Bob Weldon had called him back last night, just before midnight, to let him know how the conversation had gone. Having the mayor of New York warn him that he had taken a bit of a hard line with his west coast counterpart is coming in handy now. Castle has been expecting the warmth to fade, and now as it does, he is prepared. He stands firm in his resolve, knowing that this mayor will respect him for it . . . another seed of advice planted by Weldon in their late night conversation. It works, as the mayor of San Francisco nods her head admiringly, her normally just-below-the-shoulder length brunette hair up in a small bun.

"Well, let's get down to it," she tells him, taking a seat before it is offered. The remaining three in the room take seats at the table with her.

"In a nutshell, I believe this is a human trafficking issue," she begins. "I don't think this is murder, I don't believe this is kidnapping. There are no bodies, and no ransoms. After all of these months, at least one of those scenarios would have come into play. That they have not leaves me only door number three."

Although everyone has suspected this, it still is a splash of cold water to hear these words come from the city mayor. A splash that also incites a hard reaction.

"With all respect, Ms. Mayor, but if you suspect human trafficking, why in the world isn't there more publicity on this?" Kate asks, verbalizing the question on everyone's mind.

"Because I have no proof," Mayor Sandra Clooney responds, her own fire simmering in the gaze she plants on Kate Beckett. "As I said, the other natural scenarios are not playing out. No bodies, no ransoms. That doesn't leave many alternatives."

"If you don't mind me asking, although I think I already know the answer," Castle interrupts, aiming keep the conversation cordial, "but why did you want this meeting here at our facility, instead of at city hall?"

"Because I want this conversation away from any and all ears at city hall, Mr. Castle," she replies quickly. "I cannot believe that all of this is happening, and that no one – in city hall, in our police department – no one knows anything. No one? I have nothing from my police department. I have nothing from the DA's office. My meetings with my people give me the same damn, frustrating blank faces month after month. Either someone is a master criminal operating beneath the radar, or someone in my city is a tremendous actor."

"You're leaning toward the latter," Castle remarks with a stare.

"I'm leaning toward the latter," she agrees with another nod of her head. She notes the flicker behind the philanthropist's eyes, and makes a mental note to question him about it later. Clearly the mastermind of this campus facility suspects something, something he has yet to articulate to his own team. Her respect for him grows another notch.

"After speaking with Bob last night," the mayor continues, "he agrees, this is far too brazen for absolutely no one to know about it," and once again she notes the subtle nod of the head from Richard Castle. She is relieved when he speaks up.

"If this is a trafficking scenario," he begins, "which I agree that it is, then we have to be very careful. On the surface, this may appear like a small, one or two person operation, but if it is trafficking then there are behind the scenes players –"

"Who may be in your hallways," Detective Jennifer Blackard interrupts, "or in our precincts."

"True," Castle agrees. "Or it could be prominent business persons – anyone. But there are multiple sources."

"There has to be a buyer," Kate adds, inserting herself into the conversation, "which means middlemen in the loop."

"There is probably muscle somewhere," Mike Monroe remarks. "There is big money here, so someone is providing the security, just in case."

"Which explains my concerns," the mayor tells them, re-establishing herself. "Someone knows something, and when I get deer-in-the-headlight looks from my team . . . well, that just doesn't lend a lot of credibility. And now with another missing woman this morning, I fully expect –"

"What?" Kate interrupts, her face showing the surprise that is painted on her colleague's faces as well.

"This morning, actually late last night, another woman went missing. From the wharf. Pier 39 to be exact," the mayor tells the stunned group.

"Why haven't we heard –"

"Do you watch the news first thing Saturday morning, Detective Blackard?" the mayor replies, answering the question before the detective can finish. "Most people don't."

"There is going to be panic," Mike Monroe mutters, half under his breath.

"Indeed, Mr. . . Monroe, isn't it?" the mayor continues. "This is the second disappearance in as many nights. That's a first. Before, we were losing women once every couple or few weeks. Now, two women in two nights? This just escalated in a big way."

"What is her name?" Castle asks. Of course he would care about the name, personally. This entire establishment reeks of a man who cares personally, not corporately.

"Lisa Ward. Her sister Claire went to the restroom after they had dinner down at the wharf. She comes back and her sister is gone."

"Just like that?" Mike asks.

"Just like that," the mayor responds.

"I don't like it," Detective Blackard comments.

"Neither do I," Kate chimes in. "This is a clear change in pattern, a clear break in M.O."

"Which means this just became less predictable," Blackard adds solemnly.

"It doesn't matter," Castle remarks, drawing attention to himself. "This isn't the first time a bus has not been involved. It changes nothing. Most of the time, there are women being taken on buses, or on bus routes. Last night was an aberration, according to the data."

"True," the mayor agrees. "I have to agree with Mr. Castle. That's not what is important."

"What is then?" Monroe asks the group.

"The fact that this is the second missing woman in two days," Castle replies, drawing another nod in agreement from the mayor. " _That_ is the break in pattern, the break in M.O." he continues.

"And that is why I have to make some sort of statement," the mayor admits. "I hesitate only because I can't be sure that everyone in an official capacity in my department is clean on this."

"You think someone is involved?" Jennifer asks incredulously.

"No, detective," Clooney replies. "But as I said, I do think someone knows something, and I want to keep that person – or persons – in the dark in terms of what we do know."

"Why not simply say what is going on?" Castle asks, drawing the first disapproving glance from the mayor.

"What would you have me say, Mr. Castle?" she begins. "Should I go on television and tell women to be careful on our city buses because we suspect a predator is stealing and selling our women. I will drive ridership on the buses out of existence, and have my transportation manager screaming bloody murder. And then when the public finds out we have no – and I mean zero as in none – leads on this?"

"You're thinking lot of politician," Castle chides, unable to hide his disappointment as well.

"I _am_ a politician, Mr. Castle," and the public expects me to think like one.

"Your buses are being used to kidnap and traffic women, Ms. Mayor," Castle pushes. "I would think that trumps your political aspirations."

Her gaze is hard as she takes in the writer/philanthropist. Weldon had warned her that he is charming and affable on the outside, but there is a feisty side to Richard Castle as well. Weldon had informed her that Castle himself has an eighteen year old daughter ready to graduate from high school. So yeah, he has a vested interest in this. He is thinking like a father. She allows the slight. For now. Fortunately, Beckett interrupts the brewing heated conversation, nipping it in the bud.

"Mayor Clooney," she begins, "we have been terrible hosts," she says, walking to the glass refrigerator in the corner and grabbing a couple of bottles of water. Handing one to the mayor, she continues.

"Allow me to show you around the complex here, while we all cool down for a few minutes. We all have the same goal."

"Good idea, Kate," Mike Monroe quickly steps in. "Allow me to give our mayor the tour here." God bless Mike Monroe, who has seen enough of the Rick and Kate show in the past couple of months to recognize when there is something brewing between the two. Kate smiles at the security chief in gratitude.

"I agree," Detective Blackard chimes in. "It's a wonderful place, Mayor Clooney."

"Join them," Castle encourages the detective. "You haven't seen all of the campus yet. Mike can give you both the abbreviated tour." Then turning to the mayor, Castle apologizes.

"My apologies, Ms. Mayor. This is just a little . . . raw for me right now."

"No apology necessary, Mr. Castle," Mayor Clooney tells him, meaning it sincerely. "I have no question that your motives are honest."

A moment later, Richard Castle and Kate Beckett are left alone in the conference room while their three counterparts are in a small golf cart, touring the facilities.

"So, what's on your mind, Kate," he smiles, recognizing her desire for a short conversation between just the two of them. Yes, Kate is getting used to everyone here in California, but there are times when she simply wants to confer with the man who she has worked with – successfully – for roughly four years.

"Castle . . . Rick," she begins. "Don't you think this is a bit far-fetched, that MUNI would be involved with something like this?"

"I don't think it is far-fetched at all, Kate," he replies firmly.

"Come on, Rick, you have to admit that's a stretch," Kate counters. "Getting that many people into a crime –"

"No, no, no," he counters himself. "I don't mean I think MUNI itself is officially involved. But their buses are being used. I'm sure of it. At least for a large number of these disappearances. Someone has figured out how to use the buses to shield what they are doing.

"The buses have surveillance, Castle," Kate disagrees.

"Surveillance can be defeated easily, Kate," he counters again. "You know this. Anyway, the fact that surveillance hasn't turned up anything tells me that this is no simple thug trolling the buses. If that were the case, surveillance would have – at least statistically in one of these nine or ten cases – had to have picked something up. It's just the law of averages if nothing else. But if surveillance had picked something up, then the police would know. Jennifer would know. So that leaves two possibilities."

Kate Beckett doesn't like where this is going. One of the possibilities is so nauseating to her that she doesn't even want Castle to voice it. Yet he pushes on. He has to. She knows this.

"First possibility," he tells her. "A bus driver or two is involved, running this operation. I don't think it is a lot of them. Maybe even only one. But if video surveillance on the buses hasn't picked up anything, then that means the bus driver is in on it, and is conveniently turning surveillance off at the right moments, shielding what is happening from the cameras. I hope – I really hope that is what is happening."

"And the other possibility?" she asks nervously, already knowing, fearing the answer.

"The other isn't pleasant at all Kate. The other possibility is that surveillance _has_ picked something up, and the police are aware of it, but aren't sharing it. That's what is worrying the mayor. I agree with her, someone has to know something and they aren't sharing it, even with her. The police are aware of it. And that means that Jennifer knows something, and she isn't sharing. With you."

 **A/N:** First, my apologies for the long delay in continuing this story. My thanks to all of you who PM'd me with thoughts and prayers. We buried my dad last weekend, in a beautiful service, a great send-off for a great man. It's been a brutal, yet beautiful few weeks in so many ways, and I've just been raw. So thank you for your patience, and I will be posting more regularly now – probably not as often as I usually have in the past for a bit, but certainly it won't be multiple weeks between chapters.

God bless you all.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 9:52 a.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

It's been barely twenty minutes – if that - since Mayor Clooney left the building with Mike Monroe and Detective Jennifer Blackard, so Richard Castle is somewhat surprised when the group returns to the conference room. A typical tour takes at least half an hour, and he idly wonders who cut the tour short - the mayor, or Mike. He gets his answer quickly.

"Hey boss," Monroe greets him, glancing at Kate as he does also.

"Mike," Castle returns the greeting. "Short tour?"

"Yeah, there were quite a few families out and about, and I wasn't sure how everyone would react seeing the mayor here this morning, or whether or not the mayor wanted to be seen, so we kind of zipped past the housing area without going inside any of them."

Castle nods appreciatively, as Monroe continues.

"And I didn't show her the Z. Figured you would want to in your own time."

"Thanks Mike," Castle replies, noticing the upward eyebrows given to him by the mayor. "Private memorial. I'll show you when we finish here," he tells Clooney.

"No time like the present," Sandra Clooney replies amiably. She glances at the remaining adults in the room as she continues. "Do you mind if we fly solo on this one for a bit, folks?"

"Not at all," responds Kate, answering for the team. She senses that Castle will appreciate a little time alone with the mayor to test his theories. Theories which she has to admit have her troubled. She doesn't want to think of her friend Jennifer somehow being involved in this, or withholding information. On the other hand, Castle did say that the more likely scenario is that a bus driver is turning the surveillance off. That, however, bring little comfort to her. With this many women missing, and with many of the abductions taking place on buses or at bus stops, it follows that someone – _someone_ – has to have looked at video surveillance from the buses. It is impossible for that _someone_ not to realize that the surveillance skips, even a few seconds. She refuses to believe this. So that means that – in either scenario - _someone_ inside MUNI, or inside the police department is hiding something.

Either way, it is not good news, as she watches Castle and the mayor of San Francisco walk out the door.

Castle, for his part, walks in silence through the halls, opening the back door which flows out into the back grounds. They walk in continued silence along the pathway into the wooded area, Mayor Clooney more than content to allow Castle time to collect his thoughts before she begins. It gives her time to, once again for the second time in the past half hour, marvel at the beauty and the serenity of the grounds that Castle has created for the women and their families. If there were any doubts in her mind about the sincerity of the man, they are pounded into oblivion as they walk between the buildings, gorgeous in architecture, and the perfectly manicured lawns, rich in color from the floral plantings.

Two minutes turn into three, and three into five, the silence now almost unnerving the mayor. She glances sideways at her walking companion who seems calm and – dare she say it – peaceful as they walk westward into the woods.

"Not what came to mind when I heard you were building safe homes for battered women," Clooney finally manages.

He simply nods his head with an affirmative grunting sound, clearly lost in thought as he leads her further into the warmth of the canopy of trees overhead as they approach a clearing. Sandra Clooney glances ahead at the out-of-place rock structure that looks larger with their every approaching step. Finally standing in front of the structure that rises some eight feet into the air, the mayor reads the inscription on the wooden planks embedded into the rock.

 _For Penny – whose courage remains the foundation of these Castles._

"This is the Z," he finally tells her in almost hushed tones. "Named after Penny Zimmerman. A woman we didn't save. A woman I didn't save."

The mayor considers these words, immediately realizing there is a history here, a story here. She almost asks about it, but then reconsiders. This is a world-class author standing with her, his philanthropic nature aside. He's a storyteller. And he isn't telling this story, at least not yet. Which tells her he doesn't want to. So she gives him his secrecy, his solitude.

"You can't save everyone, Mr. Castle," she finally manages.

"Unacceptable," his replies firmly.

"Unreasonable," she counters.

"Anyone who makes the decision to come here," he argues, turning to face her. "From that moment on, they are my responsibility. From the moment they make that decision until they arrive, and from the second they arrive until they leave – they are my responsibility. That's what Penny taught me. Getting them here once they have made the decision is just as important as what we do once they arrive."

He turns away from her now, reaching out to touch the inscription.

"Someone is taking women in your city, Mayor Clooney. Someone is looking at a woman, and from that moment on, that woman is doomed. Nothing is being done about it. That's unacceptable to a mother who is now a resident here, who has lost her daughter. Therefore, it is also unacceptable to me."

"What exactly do you plan on doing, Mr. Castle?" she asks.

"Whatever is necessary."

"But you know nothing, as we stand here today," she counters, testing his resolve in the matter. "You don't know where she is, or who has taken her. You don't know where to even start."

"And I have your police department to thank for that," he counters, testily. "Ten, eleven abductions without a single clue? Your department is either inept or corrupt."

"Touche," she replies, giving him latitude. She has been searching for someone she can trust to have this open dialogue with. And Bob Weldon has told her she can trust Richard Castle. He also warned her that although he is a world-famous author with a wickedly rich vocabulary, subtly is not his strong suit.

"What if she's already dead, Mr. Castle?"

"Then she's dead," he replies quickly, his gaze boring into hers. "Either way, her mother deserves to know. Her mother _needs_ to know. Not knowing will haunt her the rest of her life. That's unacceptable."

"Her daughter's whereabouts aren't your concern, though," Clooney argues. In truth, she is pushing him, wanting to see just how committed he is to this before she opens up fully. "Your passion here is helping battered women."

"Her daughter's whereabouts became my concern the minute she walked onto this campus," he tells her, his voice steady. "My passion is helping battered women understand the root cause of their problems, and dealing with it. In this particular case, the root cause of the problem between husband and wife is their missing daughter."

He may be right, he may be wrong, the mayor decides, but at least now she understands his drive, and how deep it goes. She smiles.

She walks to the small stone bench a few feet to the side of the memorial structure. A granite plank, roughly seven feet long and two feet wide/deep is embedded into the stone. She sits at one end, and pats the space next to her. A second later, Castle complies, sitting next to her, placing his head in his hands, rubbing his hands through his hair.

"I'm going to start a task force, Mr. Castle," she begins, "but it is primarily just for show. Something is dirty in my city, and until I know the source of that dirt, I have to play things close to the vest. However, Bob told me that I can trust you, that I can trust Ms. Beckett. He also told me that you and Ms. Beckett may have a better chance of running this to the ground than my entire team.

Castle chuckles at the thought, staring straight ahead.

"I laughed too, Mr. Castle," she admits. "But Bob then told me not to underestimate what you and your partner are able to achieve, together. He told me that many a criminal made that mistake in the past four years or so, much to their chagrin."

"Bob is being kind," Castle offers, somewhat taken aback by the support from his old friend.

"He said you would say that," she chuckles again. "He also said that your ways – although unorthodox – are effective. I have to admit he worried me when he refused to elaborate on 'unorthodox'."

"Smart man," Castle grins, finally glancing her way again. "Kate and I are good together."

"Do tell," Mayor Clooney smiles in return.

"I can see why Bob likes you," he admits between chuckles. "He told me I could trust you also. Holds you in high regard."

A look flashes – ever so quickly – across her face and then it is gone. But it does not go unnoticed by Castle, who smiles inwardly, mentally jotting down a reminder to ask his friend in New York just what the relationship between he and the mayor of San Francisco is.

"So," Mayor Clooney continues, bringing the conversation back to the topic at hand, "here is my dilemma. We have women disappearing. No clues, no leads."

"That's not exactly accurate," Castle refutes with a sad smile, now beginning to truly wonder which of the scenarios is in play here – ineptitude or corruptness. "Detective Blackard shared her data with us last night," he continues, hoping he isn't causing problems for the SFPD detective in the process.

"Counting this morning, this is eleven women missing. According to the data, eight of these women went missing after catching a city bus. Of those eight scenarios, it looks like three bus lines, three bus routes were common between all of them. So that's exhibit A where Kate and I are going to start."

The concern on Sandra Clooney's face is telling, and Castle understands.

"You got all of this from glancing overnight at data my police department already has?" the mayor asks, the tension rising in her voice.

"I said your problem was ineptitude or corruptibility," Castle answers. "I was being a bit too hard on your force, because the other – and just as likely cause – is a little something we call the confirmation bias."

"The what?" Clooney asks.

"The confirmation bias," Castle repeats with a smile. "The confirmation bias refers to our tendency to search for, and favor any information that confirms what we already believe, while simultaneously ignoring – or devaluing – information that contradicts our beliefs. It's a trap that most people fall into, but one that most good writers – especially mystery writers – avoid."

The look of confusion on the mayor's face tells him further elaboration is necessary, so he continues onward.

"One of the things that used to drive Beckett and the boys – the other detectives she and I worked with back in New York – one of the things that used to drive them absolutely nuts was my . . . er . . . tendency to come up with outlandish theories. Zombies, vampires, aliens, you name it. They would just chalk it up to my wild imagination and boyish, hopeful wishes," he chuckles, his eyes dancing. "In reality, it was simply my way of never falling into a confirmation bias – looking at the evidence in one way and one way only."

He glances at Sandra Clooney again, and smiles as he stands up. He extends his hand toward her, which she accepts, rising off the stone and granite bench.

"Walk with me," he tells her, releasing her hand and walking further westward into the trees as she falls in alongside him on the pathway.

"Let me give you an example. Let's take you and I," he tells her. "You believe that climate change is real, and it is a serious issue. So you only search out and read stories about environmental conservation, climate change and how renewable energy is vital to our future. As a result, you continue to confirm and support what you already believe."

The nodding of her head is confirmation for him to continue.

"Meanwhile, let's say that I am on the other side of the fence. I don't believe that climate change is a serious issue, and so I only search out and read stories that talk about how climate change is nothing more than a fairy tale, a myth. I read stories about why scientists are incorrect. As a result, I continue to confirm and support what I already believe. You see, this is why it is hard for us – as human beings – to reach common ground more easily, because changing what we believe – changing our mind – it's much harder than it looks. The more you believe you know something, the more you filter out and ignore any and all information that doesn't support what you believe."

"Interesting theory," Mayor Clooney remarks, "and one I can see the truth in. But what does that have to do with –"

"It has everything to do with these disappearances," he interrupts, "or rather how your police department is looking at these disappearances. It's why I believe Beckett and I work so well together. She's a cop at heart, the best detective I have ever met – bar none. She gathers evidence and then formulates a hypothesis of what she thinks happened in a case. From that point on, she looks for evidence that _supports_ her hypothesis. That's what your police department does. That's what good attorneys do. She just does it better than most."

He turns to face her suddenly, stopping both of them in their tracks.

"I, on the other hand," he continues, "like to create a hypothesis and then test out various scenarios and ways to prove it _false_. It's what makes for a more interesting writer – one who can show a reader evidence, show a reader one path, and then subtly take that reader down a very different path. The element of surprise. I don't like to prove my hypothesis is correct. I look to prove it is _incorrect._ That encourages me – that enables me – to consider other scenarios that most would consider far-fetched and preposterous."

The mayor is smiling now, considering one Richard Castle in a very new and different light. He sees the moment of clarity in her eyes and smiles.

"That's why I think – that's why I sincerely hope – that your department hasn't flushed something out yet," he continues. "When I spoke with Kate last night, and even today, she found it implausible, unlikely that MUNI is involved in these disappearances. So when she and I looked at the data Jennifer – Detective Blackard – provided, and we saw that three different bus routes were involved in those situations where a woman disappeared . . . well, that just validated what she was already thinking. In her mind, if MUNI is involved, if someone from MUNI is involved, if this is a bus driver doing all of this, then only one bus route would have turned up. We would have looked at the driver assignments and figured out quickly who the driver was and – bingo – you have cause to bring in a suspect for questioning at a minimum. That's how she wants it to work. That's how the normal cop wants it to work. But remember, it is not natural for us to create a hypothesis and then test the evidence to prove it false. No, it is far more natural, far more likely that we will form a hypothesis, assume that it is true, and only seek out information that validates it. Most of the time, we don't want new information. We want validating information. It's a short cut that often causes us to ignore the real truth.

"So how do you read it then, Mr. Castle? How do three bus routes tell you that MUNI might be involved?"

"Because if MUNI is involved, if a bus driver is involved, then they have to be so calculating, so intelligent, so forward thinking to set up a human trafficking plan, to operationalize it, to fund it, to manage it, to keep it hidden deep under the radar . . . and yet be stupid enough to only use one bus?" he laughs – literally laughs. "That's my definition of preposterous. If someone at MUNI is involved, then they would cover their tracks. They'd use multiple buses, multiple bus routes."

He turns about-face, nodding his head to the side indicating they should return back.

"So Kate believes that MUNI can't be involved. That's her hypothesis. That's the hypothesis I would guess most of your police force believe, because the notion that your city transportation department is involved in something this nefarious is tough to swallow, it's tough to get your arms around. So she – and I believe – your police look for information to support that hypothesis, to support the belief that MUNI can't be involved. I, on the other hand, look at that same evidence trying to prove the belief that MUNI can't be involved to be a false assumption. Multiple buses don't bother me. They tell me there is organization and planning and subterfuge. Just like I would write it."

The mayor is quiet for a moment, considering this information before she speaks. They leave the path and now take a short cut through the clearing, passing by the rock memorial again, the leaves crackling underneath their feet the only sound as they make their way back.

"So that's why you two work so well together," the mayor smiles. "She is working hard to prove on thing, while you are working just as hard to prove that one thing false. It covers more bases."

"Exactly," he smiles, giving mental kudos to the mayor.

"So how do you do something like this without driving each other absolutely crazy?" she asks.

"Who says we don't drive each other crazy?" he counters, and they both chuckle as they reach the trees leading them back onto the path toward the residences just a few minutes away now.

"There is one other piece of good news," Castle tells her after another minute of silence as they walk along the pathway. "The disappearance you told us about this morning. You said it occurred on or near Pier 39."

"On Pier 39," the mayor confirms. "Ward's sister said they had just finished eating there."

"That, Mayor Clooney, is the third abduction to take place out at Fisherman's Wharf. So that means we have multiple scenarios. To Kate, that proves that this isn't something happening on the buses."

"But to you," the mayor continues a few seconds later, "that _doesn't_ prove that whoever is behind this is not using buses . . ." she pauses.

"It just means they are usually using buses, and occasionally using another location or situation," he continues for her, "but in either case, it's either on or off a bus, or down at the wharf. Whoever this is has figured out two avenues to conduct their . . . business. Because they are not usually either avenue exclusively causes most observers to conclude that neither avenue is part of their M.O., when in fact -"

"When in fact, both avenues – buses and the wharf – are part of their M.O.," the mayor finishes his thought, nodding her head. "Bob was right about you," she states, under her breath.

"So you see," Castle continues as they walk through the clearing, the residences and administrative building now in sight, "we actually do have clues, we do have leads . . . I just suspect that because we are dealing with some clever people, because they have given us two M.O.'s, I suspect that – like Kate – your police department is ignoring both, because they don't conform to what they expect."

They walk between a set of residence buildings, and make the turn toward the administrative building, which is roughly one hundred yards away now.

"So what now?" the mayor asks.

"Well, I appreciate that Mike cut your tour short, keeping prying eyes away from you," Castle begins.

"I appreciate his foresight as well" Clooney replies amiably.

"There is, however, one woman I would like for you to meet," Castle tells her. "Someone for whom everything we have been discussing is very important. Her name is Pamela Hamilton."

"Her daughter was taken," the mayor nods.

"Yes," Castle responds. "And seeing you, knowing that you are involved, may do her a world of good, Mayor Clooney."


	6. Chapter 6

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 10:31 a.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito, California**_

"Pamela, this is Mayor Sandra Clooney," Castle begins, taking in the woman's somewhat haggard appearance. Sure, this makes sense. She's been through the ringer in the past few days. Dealing with an abducted child, no leads from the police, a pristine marriage turned violent, now uprooted from her home . . . yeah, haggard is allowed for Pamela Hamilton right now.

"Pamela," Mayor Clooney states amiably with an extended hand, which Pamela tentatively accepts. "I was going to say I am sorry for your loss . . . but my goal," she continues as she now glances at Castle, " _our_ goal is to bring your daughter back home safely to you."

That gets her, as a spark of life, a hint of hope appears behind the eyes of the newest resident of the Castles. It's been weeks since her daughter was taken, and the police have had no clues – zip, nada, none. She and Thomas have come to the horrific conclusion that their daughter is dead, gone forever. Each has blamed the other. But now this woman – a woman she recognizes from television – this mayor, is telling her that perhaps Grayson is not dead. Perhaps there is a chance to get her back. Pamela glances over at her host, the builder of these facilities. In his eyes, she sees confirmation of what she has just heard. And something else.

She sees a determination in those eyes that matches the frustration and hopelessness that she has been feeling. For a moment, hope indeed rises within her spirit. The moment, however, is fleeting at best, and Castle actually sees the split second in her eyes when hope subsides, giving way to the constant despair that has set in.

Fortunately, Dr. Samantha Peraza also sees the instant when the door of hope slams shut on the face of her latest patient.

"No Pamela!" she almost shouts at the woman, startling her. "Don't shut it down. Allow yourself to hope."

Dr. Peraza has been chatting with Pamela this morning for the past half hour. As Castle and the mayor of the city across the bridge entered the room, recognition flared on the faces of both women of both the man and woman who walked through the door. She knows the grief that is consuming Pamela Hamilton right now. She also knows well enough, however, that Richard Castle would not allow even a modicum of hope to re-enter the picture if he didn't believe that there was a substantial chance that Grayson Hamilton was alive.

"Are you sure?" she mouths silently toward her old friend. A nod of his head is all the assurance she needs.

"Mrs. Hamilton," Mayor Clooney continues, "I believe that your daughter is still alive. I believe that all of our young women who have been abducted are still alive. And I mean to use all of the resources at my disposal in order to find all of them. To find your daughter."

Hot tears mingle with a wave of sobs that now overtake the distraught mother and estranged wife. Dr. Peraza quickly takes her into her own arms, holding tight.

"That's it, Pamela," she tells her. "Let it go. Let it all go, except for hope. Hope, we cling to. Hope, we hold on tightly to."

"Why?" Pamela finally manages, glancing quickly between Clooney and Castle for answers. "How?"

For a brief instant, the mayor and the author-philanthropist exchange glances, unsure of exactly how much information to share with the young woman. Finally deciding the honesty is going to be the best approach here, Castle begins to speak before he is interrupted by the mayor.

"Pamela," Castle says softly, "we believe –"

"That women are being abducted as a part of a large human trafficking operation," the mayor finishes, taking the conversation. She's here, she's the mayor – this is why she agreed to meet with this woman, at Castle's behalf. She's not going to stay in the background as a prop.

"We have not let this information out – at least not yet – for obvious reasons, not the least of which is that we do not want to tip our hand to the perpetrators that we are on to their operation," the mayor continues.

"For that same reason," Castle says, inserting himself back into the conversation, "we are not at liberty to disclose to you everything that we know or suspect. Just be confident that the media reports that there are no clues, no leads, nothing to go on – be confident that this information is false. We do know things. We just are not saying anything at this time."

"I don't understand," Pamela replies, beginning to at least try to compose herself. "I mean, I appreciate you doing what you can Mr. Castle, but . . . but, you are . . . I mean, you aren't –"

"He's not a police officer, Mrs. Hamilton," the mayor interjects, "but believe me – Mr. Castle here is one of your best options of seeing your daughter again. If he weren't, he and I would not be standing together in front of you right now."

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 10:45 a.m. – At the Residence of Jimmy and Mara Blankenship**_

"Well, this is just great," a frustrated Jimmy Blankenship screams at his wife, Mara, who sitting smirking on the oversized sofa next to the bay window overlooking the city streets. Mara is well-prepared for this argument. She knew her husband would be furious when he discovered what she had done with Lisa Ward last night.

Mara Blankenship works down at Pier 39 for an adventure/tour group, which gives her ample opportunity to scope out gorgeous young women who meet Donovan's particular tastes. Taking Lisa Ward was too soon, too close to the previous abduction. She knows this, as one of the basic principles she and Jimmy have operated under – for years now – is the notion of not getting greedy. Anything that brings undue scrutiny is bad for business, and what she did last night is potentially bad for business. Too many disappearances in too short a period of time brings more scrutiny, more press, more visibility. All of those elements add up to an unnecessary chance of being caught.

Mara, however, had seen an opportunity, as she is trying to explain to her husband.

"You saw her picture on the television, Jimmy," she begins her defense argument. "Is there any girl we have taken that matches his preferences, that matches what we know he pays top dollar for than that girl?" she asks, but she isn't really asking. She is telling him. And from his reaction, she knows that he reluctantly has to agree with her logic.

"Mara, it doesn't matter," he argues. "We agreed –"

"We agreed, Jimmy," she interrupts, "to do whatever necessary to maximize our profits. You know we can't do this forever. You know this isn't a life-long business. We won't last. At some point, Donovan is going to search for other sellers. You know this! And when he does, you and I just became expendable."

"All the more reason not to draw undue attention to ourselves," he hisses at her, lowering his voice so that neighbors don't hear the argument raging.

"James," she tells him, formalizing the conversation as she often does when she is running out of patience, "I saw an opportunity, and I took it. At $75,000 a girl, I'm not going to turn the other way simply because you are too damn cautious. We didn't bank three quarters of a million dollars in the past six months by being cautious!"

Jimmy grudgingly has to agree with his wife on that one. They have been doing this for the past couple of years now. They had started out with younger children, shipping them overseas. They didn't make a lot of money, compared to what they are experiencing now, but they learned the trade, so to speak. Somehow, their operation came to the attention of Donovan, who prefers his girls more around the college age, and has been willing to pay heavily for them.

That they unknowingly came under the scrutiny of Donovan has always been a concern, a sticking point for Jimmy. While Mara looks at it as fate giving them a huge opportunity, Jimmy has looked at the idea that someone found out what they were doing as the first nail in their coffin, so to speak. If Donovan found out, who is to say others can't as well. Hence, Jimmy is cautious – much to the chagrin of his avarice-driven wife.

"I take it the Ward girl is already on the boat," he asks, finally giving in, as Mara knew he would.

"Early this morning," she replies sweetly, her mood changing immediately upon winning this particular round. "She will be in Playas de Rosarito in the next day or so, and we will have our money by mid-week."

"Well, thank heavens for small favors," Jimmy mumbles to himself.

"Heaven had nothing to do with this," she smiles, and for just a second, Jimmy Blankenship is reminded of exactly how sinister his chosen mate can be. No matter – a few months from now, they will be over a cool million dollars. Then he will talk with her about shutting this operation down. And if that conversation doesn't go well . . . well, there are other fish in the sea for him to swim with. Especially with a healthy bank account to help him disappear.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 2:35 p.m. – In a small bar in the Mission District**_

"Well, well, well. It appears that hell has, indeed, frozen over."

Sam Carlos runs one of the largest gangs in San Francisco. A Hispanic-Asian with a Stanford degree, he is known as 'the Professor' in the local circles. Born to a Hispanic father and Filipino mother, Sam earned a degree in sociology, and while he could have taken his talents virtually anywhere, his passion for using technology to further society took a detour with the murder of his mother during his senior year. Cast aside by the SFPD as another 'senseless gang killing', her murder went unsolved until Sam, using an unusual intellect and even more impressive martial art skills, found the murderer himself some fifteen months later, dispensing his own brand of justice.

Since that time, Sam has used the last eleven plus years after getting out of college to build his own empire of young, up and coming youth, with a very different message: Get an education, make a difference, and remember your roots.

Oh, and anything goes. There are no rules. Police are not to be trusted. This last point is personal for Sam Carlos.

Because of this philosophy, very few members stay in the organization as 'active members' beyond the age of nineteen or twenty. By then, they are either at City College, or the State University on Holloway. Still others have found their way into the medical program at USF on the Hilltop, while others have made it into state schools down south.

Regardless, no one is ever truly 'out'. Once graduated, members come back in some form or fashion to support the cause. And – unlike most other gangs – female membership in the organization usually runs between thirty to thirty-five percent. Members are doctors, nurses, attorneys . . . and yes, police officers in a covert fashion.

Detective Jennifer Blackard sits across the table from – admittedly – the most dangerous man she has ever met face-to-face. Sam is a walking contraction. Unnaturally handsome, brilliant, well-dressed and well-articulated, he does not fit the typical stereotype for gangland members. Jennifer has learned, however, through the grapevine and from direct witnesses, that Sam Carlos is not a man to be trifled with. Now thirty-four years of age, he is reaping the benefits of a well-orchestrated life of crime. And because of the circumstances surrounding his mother's death and lack of progress with finding her killer – until he found the man himself – well, to say that Carlos is not fond of the San Francisco Police Department is a monumental understatement.

Detective Blackard is one of the very few exceptions to this rule that he has made in the last few years.

"You're not going to let me forget that, are you Sam?" she asks.

"Well, it's not often anyone tells me they will see me again when hell freezes over," he replies amiably, a smile on his face. She is not fooled. She knows the danger that lurks behind that unassuming smile. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she asks herself if this man would ever really hurt _her_.

"If _memory_ serves, I waited at that restaurant for half an hour," Jennifer smiles in return. "And that was after convincing myself that giving you a chance wasn't just some young girl's pipe-dream."

"Ah . . . so nice to know that I am a part of your nighttime meanderings," Sam smiles again. He has missed the banter back and forth with this woman. "But much as I wish this were truly a social call, I know that it is not," he continues. "What can I do for you, Detective Blackard?"

Using her professional title is a signal to Jennifer Blackard that a not so subtle shift has occurred, and seconds later, they are down to business. Detective Blackard doesn't condone Sam's life, his actions or choices. But she is a realist, and she realizes that sometimes, a form of truce is necessary for the greater good.

This is one of those times.

"Astute as always, Mr. Carlos," she replies formally, and notices the very brief look of disappointment that crosses the gang leader's face – it's only an instant and then it is gone.

"I have a problem," she continues. "Actually, the city has a problem, and I am hoping that you might be able to help."

His laughter is low in volume, but raucous with emotion. It's no act, he is genuinely tickled by this turn of events. She needs his help. Her city needs his help. No, that's not exactly right. This isn't her city. This is his city. She would do well to remember this

"It's not funny, Sam," she says, lapsing back into the personal side with him.

"Oh, but it is, Detective," he counters, not taking the unintended bait. "I can't imagine what ills my city has that would cause you to reach out for help."

She does not miss the implied ownership in his statement.

"Sam, you are well aware of what is happening," she responds, a bit of fire entering her voice now. "That is, unless your vaunted hold on the city is slipping."

That does it, of course. The fire returns to his eyes, and a bit of a verbal standoff begins.

"Nothing escapes my view, Jennifer," he replies, the smile returning as a veil to the simmering emotion just under the surface. "You know this."

"Then I wonder why you have not done anything, Sam. I know you have heard what's going on with the young women here in the city. The disappearances. I know you have heard something. Anything. Nothing escapes your view, right?"

He sits back, glancing out the window at the traffic passing by, taking a deep breath. He always enjoys watching the pedestrians and cars whisking by from his normal table here in this eclectic restaurant in the Mission District. For a moment, his mind takes him back to simpler times – perhaps happier times? His mother is alive, cooking lumpia and fried rice in the kitchen while his dad and aunt slave over homemade tamales. Growing up in a culturally diverse family meant a very unique palette for all in the family. He smiles, almost smelling the aroma from the kitchen. A honking car passing by brings him back to the present.

"It's not my problem, Detective," he finally replies, no emotion in his voice. His eyes appear to darken. It's not possible, eyes don't darken, she tells herself, but the effect is unmistakable.

"Not your problem?" she challenges, her voice slightly rising. Recognizing the error in protocol, she quickly lowers her voice, but repeats her challenge.

"Not your problem? Sam, please, no games. You know how serious this is."

"Jennifer, it is not my problem. This doesn't touch my family, my people," he tells her. "It is obvious that whoever is taking your girls likes blondes. Even the black girl was a blonde, for crying out loud."

This is true, Jennifer thinks. Except for one girl who is a dirty blonde, all are clear blondes.

"Not many Hispanic or Asian blondes in my old neighborhood," he smiles again. "I'll take my chances."

"Of course you would," Jennifer replies angrily, emotion finally brimming to the surface.

"I'm sorry, Jennifer," he counters, and his eyes tell her he is being genuine. "I am very successful with what I do, with how I take care of my very, very large family because – in large part – I pick my battles. This is not a battle that can be won."

"What?" she replies. "Surely my ears are –"

"Don't be so dramatic," he interrupts. "Whoever is doing this knows what they are doing, and they have some heavy backing."

"What do you mean?" she asks. "You really _do_ know what's going on, don't you?"

"Here is what I will tell you, Detective" he remarks, again shifting his gaze out through the window next to them. He's purposefully keeping her off-guard.

"The streets say that there is a new organization, a new buyer that is driving the taking of women from your city –"

"Oh it's _my_ city now?" she reacts with disgust. He doesn't bite.

"No one from my side of the street has been taken," he smiles, and this time the smile is without mirth, without humor. It's a dark smile. "Whoever it is knows better," he continues. "But this is what I will tell you, if you allow me. The streets say there is a new buyer that is driving this. The streets say that this new buy is down in Mexico. Playas de Rosarito to be precise. That's what the streets say."

He lets this sit for a few seconds, watching her mull this new information over. He sees the conflict raging inside her, and forces to keep the smile off his face. It's not difficult, because he truly does like this woman – in his way. He sees the instant when she makes her decision.

She has been here less than ten minutes with the man, and Jennifer Blackard has already had enough. He's playing games. He knows more than this.

"Okay, tell me what the deal has to be, Sam," she offers somewhat bitterly. This is what she did not want – the scenario that Kate warned her would fall on the table. It's why Kate wasn't comfortable with Jennifer meeting Sam, and Kate even attending this meeting. Not that Kate being here was even going to be an option in Sam's mind. Still, this is the risk in meeting with the Sam Carlos' of the world. Nothing is free. There is compromise. Jennifer Blackard isn't comfortable with compromise.

Truce? Okay.

Compromise. Never.

That is – never, until this very moment when she realizes that she has no other options available.

"You keep telling me what the streets are saying," she begins. "What you aren't telling me is what you are saying. I know you, Mr. Carlos – I know when you are holding back. Well, I am not going to hold back with you. Maybe you won't do this because it is the right thing to do for women – any and all women, not just those in your . . . your family you call it? Right. Let me warn you –"

The use of the word 'warn' catches him off guard. Not many people use that terminology with him. His eyes narrow instinctively as she continues.

"You're right – no one is taking your women. You're right, there aren't many that fit this wacko's particular tastes. But that won't last, Mr. Carlos, trust me. There was another abduction last night. That makes two in just a couple of days. Whoever is behind this has just changed the game."

It's only because she knows him well, knows his mannerisms that she sees the recognition flare for just an instant before he hides it. She pushes on.

"Your women won't stay off the table, off the radar for much longer, I promise you. You know how beautiful your women are – with their dark hair, their naturally tanned skin, their exotic looks and nature. No, it won't be long before they, too, are targets. If this doesn't stop, this will hit your neighborhoods. What will you do then?" she wonders aloud.

"So tell me, what is this going to cost me, Mr. Carlos," she continues on, courage rising as she eyes him directly. Neither breaks their gaze. "I will owe you one," she says finally. "This will get you one look the other way, no questions asked. Murder is off the table, no deal there. Nothing brutal. But –"

"But nothing, Detective," he counters, not breaking eye contact with her. He is disappointed. He has pushed her too far. He knows that everyone has that point, that line that they will finally cross. For over six years Detective Jennifer Blackard has danced nicely on the opposite side of this line, never even threatening or teasing to cross.

Until now.

"You have always been fair with me, Jennifer," he remarks. "Even when others weren't. And you have always stayed on your side of the ledger. It is why I have always liked you so much . . . okay, it is one of the reasons I have always liked you so much."

A little levity is good, as both offer a small smile, just easing the tension at the table enough. He will leave their college history off the table for now.

"I will do this much for you, Detective – no strings attached. I like you the way you have always been Jennifer – unattached, no debts. This must be very important to you for you to even consider crossing your invisible line."

He reaches across the table, and instinctively her hand moves toward his. Old times die hard, even though it has been quite some time since they have seen each other.

"I will do this for you on one condition," Carlos continues. "Never do this again. If you can look the other way for me, then you can do it for someone else. Then you are no different, Jennifer, than all of the other blues that I despise," he spits. There is clear malice and venom in his voice. His hatred for the police is something still raw, and he wears it on his sleeve.

"Mr. Carlos," she begins, and then softens as she gives his hand a squeeze before removing it. "I could have taken this request to someone else. You know how easy it would have been for me to go elsewhere. Much easier than coming to you."

He nods in agreement, knowing her words to be true.

"There is no one . . . on your side of the ledger, as you put it, that I would trust."

"You still trust me, Jennifer?"

She pauses just for a second, now her turn to stare out the window at the world passing by.

"Yes," she states flatly.

He nods again, and quickly stands. She pulls her chair back to join him, but he holds his hand out, keeping her in her chair.

"No, you stay," he tells her. "Our business is done here. I am doing this for you, Jennifer. Not for your precinct, not for this city. I will do this for you."

He takes a couple of steps away from the table toward the door, then turns with a smile.

"Order your lunch. It is on me," he smiles, then adds. "Oh, and tell Kate hello, and let her know she can come in now," he chuckles, noticing her raised eye brow.

"Nothing escapes my attention, remember?" he states, then turns and walks toward the door and leaves.

Detective Blackard can only smile. Of course he would know that Kate was outside across the street. Kate probably has had ten guns trained on her from different vantage points, knowing Sam. She winces at the memory of a much younger Samuel Edward Carlos back at Stanford. Back then, Sam and Jennifer were an on-again, off-again couple, and Kate was a part of their party circle. A three-month string to start 1999 changed all of that.

Johanna Beckett was killed in January, which sent her daughter, Kate, back to the east coast. Two months later, Cecilia Carlos was gunned down in the Mission District, sending her son, Sam, across the invisible line a few months later after graduation.

Sadness paints Jennifer's face as she watches Kate walk across the street towards the small bar, as Sam walks toward his car across the street. The two ex-close friends pause for a moment before walking toward one another. They stand for a few seconds on the curbside, neither saying a word, both taking the other in. Finally, Sam takes a step closer and Kate reciprocates. The two embrace for just a couple of seconds, and Kate breaks the embrace and turns to walk inside.

A few seconds later, Kate Beckett sits at the table with her friend, neither saying a word. Tears form in Kate's eyes, which Jennifer matches.

"So fickle," Jennifer finally muses aloud.

"What?" Kate asks.

"Fate," Jennifer remarks. "So fickle."

Kate can only nod.

Jennifer stares at her friend across the table and her head instinctively turns to see Carlos' car pull away from the curb. Two of her best friends in life. Both lost their mothers, within three months of each other. One murder pushed one friend to the right side of the ledger. The other murder pushed another friend to the wrong side of the ledger. Both are equally passionate in their pursuits.

"So, what did you find out?" Kate asks, running a hand through her hair while she glances down at the menu.


	8. Chapter 8

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 9:25p.m. – At Richard Castle's Home in Sausalito**_

Richard Castle steps out of the shower, pulling a large, oversized San Francisco Giants towel off the hook and quickly drying off. He stares at the large mop of hair extending every which way, and snickers to himself, imagining her reaction if she could see him now.

'Her', of course, being one Kate Beckett.

He wraps the towel around his waist and makes his way out of the elaborate bathroom into his bedroom. Their bedroom. She is lying in wait for him, stretched out – naked herself - under the covers. One glance at his towel brings a mock frown to her face.

"Traitor," she smiles.

"Have to support the new home team, love," he smiles in return. He gathers himself, dropping the towel as he scoots under the covers with her. She both feels – and hears – his contentment as she nestles closer. She knows him well enough, after these couple of months of intimacy, to realize he is not in the zone this evening. He's distracted.

" _Okay,"_ she thinks to herself, _"a little R &R will have to wait until another time."_

"What's on your mind?" she asks, curling a finger across his chest. She already knows the answer. She knows what he is thinking about. It's all she has been thinking about as well, since this afternoon. It's all they talked about – in hushed words – at the cozy restaurant along the water just a few miles from their home. It's all they talked about during the short drive back to the house.

He brushes a hand along her breast, then chuckles.

"What is it?" she repeats, smiling easily.

"I'm distracted," he admits, smiling easily in return.

"Could have fooled me," she replies, her smile intact.

"I'm trying to decide what the distraction is," he tells her. "Am I wanting to make love to my best friend, and have this damn case distracting me? Is that it?"

She continues smiling, allowing him to finish, knowing he is talking as much to himself as he is to her.

"Or am I thinking about this damn case," he continues, "and my best friend lying naked in the bed with me is distracting me."

She smiles broader, and exhales slowly, beginning to wrestle herself away from him.

"Let me fix the problem for you," she says, pulling herself up on the edge of the bed, reaching for her t-shirt. He gently pulls her back toward him.

"Don't you dare leave," he warns her with a smile.

"Well, Mr. Castle," she smirks, "I don't want to be thought of as nothing more than a distraction."

"Okay, more like an incentive," he decides aloud.

"Mmmm," is her only response, but she complies as she returns to her previous spot under the covers and snuggles in closer.

"Don't fall asleep on me, Castle," she tells him as she backs into him, bending slightly, completing the spoon."

"Wouldn't think of it," he replies into her ear, nuzzling her ear lobe in the process.

"Good. My ego is damaged enough as it is for one night."

They are quiet now, both enjoying a moment that has long eluded them for years, and deep in thought about women they don't know and have never met. Finally, Castle is the first to speak up again.

"Do you believe him?"

"Who?" she asks.

"You know who," he responds. "Don Juan, Jennifer's old flame. And your ancient secret crush."

"That obvious?"

"That obvious. Did he ever know?"

"Oh yeah," she replies with a chuckle. "We talked about it back then. Sam was always an up-front kind of guy. Anyway, he always knew he was a magnet."

Castle has to laugh at that, and receives a pre-emptive elbow to the rib for his efforts.

"Ooof," he manages.

"Don't even say it," she warns amiably.

"So you bowed out gracefully," he finally gets out.

"You could say that," she says, nestling back into him once again.

"Baaa – ket", he wonders aloud, holding out the first syllable, his voice rising on the second, as he wraps his arms back around her waist.

"He and Jennifer were always on-again, off-again," she explains, snuggling closer. "Typical college stuff."

He nods his head in understanding, now drawing imaginary circles on the side of her hip which is buried into him.

"And you were . . . okay, I just am having a hard time imagining you as a substitute stand-by, Kate," he tells her, the unbelief clear in his voice.

"Not in the least," she gives him, turning to half face him for a second. "More of a shoulder to whine on."

"Hmmm," she hears him purr in her ear. Another minute passes before he speaks again, asking the same question.

"You never answered my original question," he begins. "Do you –"

"Yes, I believe him," she answers. "Rather, I believe what Jen told me he said."

"So, you think he can find out what is going on?" he asks.

"From what Jen said, he can be very . . . persuasive," Kate replies.

"And you're okay with that?" Castle asks incredulously, now rising to an elbow over her.

"I owe him, Castle," is her simple reply. "I owe him."

"How so?" he asks, now more curious than anything else. She, too, rises to an elbow then into a sitting position, which he matches. She pulls up the sheets to cover her naked breasts, and lays her head on his shoulder.

"Remember when we first started working together, all those years ago, and I finally told you about Mom? I told you that I couldn't chase her case anymore. I had gone too far down the rabbit hole?"

"Yes, I remember," he recalls, also remembering how he disobeyed her wishes by looking further into her mother's case during their first year together. He had almost derailed this thing of theirs before they had a chance to really begin.

"Just over a year before you came, Sam was my anchor," she admits. "Sam was the one who reached down into the hole and pulled me out."

She sees the confusion on his face and continues.

"I was spiraling out of control, and I was ready to do anything to get some answers, Rick. Anything to get justice. And justice became vengeance. I was ready to do anything. Anything. Anything that would lead to solving the case."

She sees his look of shock, and nods her head, reconfirming what he has just heard.

"Anything," she repeats yet again.

 **. . . . . . . . . . . . .**

 _ **Saturday, December 18, 2007 – 8:44p.m. – At Kate Beckett's Apartment in New York**_

 _Detective Beckett sits on the sofa with her legs pulled up underneath her hips, staring at the snow falling outside her living room window. Christmas is in one week. She is dreading the day, just as she has dreaded the entire holiday season. Just as she has for the past eight or nine years. All the happiness, all the smiles . . . the families. It's just too much._

 _Thinking about family, she quickly considers calling her dad, but she and Jim Beckett are still a bit distant with one another. Whether it is due to his embarrassment over his alcoholism and her role in pulling him out of it, or whether it is due to her hesitation to re-engage with her father – neither of them really talk about it. But calling Dad is not an option tonight. So she takes another sip of the red wine she has poured for herself with the take-out pasta she brought home earlier._

 _Her mind is racing, as she glances down, once again, at the bruises on her knuckles, courtesy of the beating she gave the young punk earlier this afternoon. Perhaps he really didn't know more than he was telling. But Jimmy Raglan, the son of former detective John Raglan, was holding out on her. Just as his father had. His father has been either a slippery, sloppy man - or a dishonest one – take your pick. She had lost her vaunted control in the alley this afternoon. It's something that is occurring more often now._

 _The knock at the door startles her out of her reverie._

 _She gazes through the peephole and cannot contain the gasp that escapes her lips. She unlocks the door quickly and flings it open, staring face-to-face with a man she had never thought she would see again._

" _Sam?"_

" _Beckster," the darkly tanned man replies as the two embrace. For Kate, this is a reminder of happier times, easier times. A reminder when the world seemed a little . . . brighter._

" _Sam. What are you doing here?"_

" _Nice to see you too, Beckster," he smiles. "What kind of greeting is that?"_

 _She has to smile at hearing his old nickname for her, and for a brief instant her mind takes her back to Stanford, to Jennifer, to Sam. She tightens her embrace on her old friend. Seconds later, she pulls away, pulling him inside._

" _Come in, come in, for crying out loud. What a wonderful surprise."_

" _Perhaps," he tells her, and now she notices. He's different. Oh, he's still handsome, and charming. She's reminded of why she and Jennifer – and pretty much half the Stanford campus – were taken with him. She's also reminded that he was one of the few 'pretty men' she has met in her life who didn't flaunt it, didn't use it as an opportunity to bed every walking woman he encountered._

 _But there's something different about him. Okay, sure, it's been at least eight years since she has seen him last. But there is an edge to him. She has only been a police officer for a few years, but her radar is always accurate. And he doesn't wait for an invitation to sit. Instead, he is clearly in charge here, as he walks to her sofa and sits, patting the area next to him._

" _Sit, Kate," he offers, now more officiously than before._

" _This isn't a social visit, is it, Sam?"_

" _On the contrary, detective, this is entirely a social visit . . . of sorts," he replies, and she doesn't miss the – what is it, almost disdain – in the term 'detective'._

" _I'm here to help, Beckster," he begins._

" _Help? Help who?"_

" _You, of course," he replies affably, still smiling. It's a dangerous smile. She recognizes this smile._

" _You're different," she admits, immediately regretting her choice of words, her admission._

" _As are you," he offers in return. "We both are products of . . . circumstance."_

" _Excuse me?" she questions._

" _I'm here because your dad called me," he begins, ignoring her question. He sees the anger flaring up on her face and smiles inwardly. Sure, she wouldn't like the notion of daddy calling in help._

' _Oh yes, Kate, you are different,' he thinks to himself, very much liking the new Kate Beckett. He holds a hand up to stop her interruption, to quell her anger even if only temporarily._

" _I don't have much time, detective," he continues. "I suspect you won't give me much of that. So let's do this the easy way. I will speak. Then you will speak. Then I will speak, and you will toss me out. But before the tossing, you will hear what I have to say."_

 _He glances down at the evidence of her father's concerns, taking her hands inside his. The bruises on her hands are fresh. But they are new bruises on top of old bruises. He glances up into her eyes, seeing the anger, the hatred, the pain and sadness. He recognizes every one of those emotions from his own journey._

" _I'm sorry about your mother, Kate," he begins, and before she can react, he drops the first bomb._

" _Two months after you left, I learned the hard way exactly what you were going through."_

 _He lets that sink in, watching the realization in her eyes when she recognizes what he is saying. Her hand immediately comes to her mouth, her eyes widening._

" _Killed. Murdered. Just like your mother," he continues. His eyes are dark but clear, and there is that edge again. It's in his voice. It's in how he carries himself. Even how he sits._

" _The police were . . ."_

 _She notices the pause in his voice before he continues._

" _Useless," he finally finishes. "Dismissed it as a random crime, probably some gangland violence," he spits the words out with disgust._

" _You know the feeling, don't you, Kate?"_

 _She merely nods her head in agreement, and opens her mouth to speak. He raises his hand yet again._

" _My turn," he simply says. "Yours is coming. I found that – despite the stellar efforts of the San Francisco Police Department – no justice was found for my mother. I also found – months later – that a little persistence on my part uncovered things that . . . things that somehow eluded San Francisco's Finest."_

 _Unconsciously, she is nodding her head at this also. She suspects a cover-up with her mother's case. She is certain of it. Nothing else explains to total, complete lack of progress, lack of evidence, lack of clues._

" _I found," Sam continues, "that a little pressure applied in the right areas yielded considerable fruit. I found the murderer on my own. My journey, during that time however, was a very dark one. Some would say that I never completely left the darkness behind me," he smiles._

" _What do you mean? And are you saying you found your mother's murderer?"_

" _Your second question is easier to answer," he nods. "Yes, I found mom's killer."_

" _What did you do?"_

" _I took action that – to this day – has established me, established those I consider my family – to be off limits to anyone with a smidgen of a brain."_

 _His statement is delivered so easily, so matter-of-factly that it completely disarms Kate Beckett, something difficult to do to the fledgling detective._

" _Sam –"_

" _You operate on one side of the law, Kate," he interrupts, knowing the war going on inside her head. "I operate on the opposite side. Our methods differ, and truth be told, our goals differ. But more often than not, I would dare say we end up with similar results. That's why I am here."_

 _She stands, and begins pacing. She's not sure what she feels. Anger at Jim Beckett. Surprise and disappointment with Sam Carlos. Disgust at the NYPD for dropping her mother's case so easily._

" _The darkness is beginning to consume you, Kate," Sam continues, now choosing to sit back in the comfortable couch. He will let her walk this out, pacing back and forth._

" _I know this, because the darkness consumed me. I can recognize the signs. Your father was right. You do need help. But your father was wrong in thinking that anything short of solving your mother's murder will give you what you need. It's the wound that continues to reopen, seeping darkness into your life."_

 _She turns and faces him, stunned at the clarity in which he understands her. Stunned at how a man she has not seen for almost a decade has so clearly pinpointed where she is in her life right now._

" _I don't know what to do, Sam?" she finally admits, tears glistening her eyes. He sees the emotion, and she is surprised to see the wetness forming in his eyes as well._

" _I know, Kate. I know," he tells her. "Because even though you are falling into darkness, you are not dark. You never were. It's not a comfortable place for you. Unlike me."_

 _He stands now, and walks toward her, and pulls her back to the sofa where they both sit._

" _You will never find her killer, Kate, because even though you may seem to cross the line occasionally," he begins, touching her bruised hands to emphasize his point, "you just as quickly fall back into line, consumed with guilt, which turns into frustration. Which pushes you across the line again, only to have you jump back yet again. This comical cycle continues on and on. Am I correct so far?"_

' _Yeah, he gets me,' she thinks to herself as she nods her head to him._

" _You have two choices, Kate. And only two," he tells her, the smile and pretense now gone. She gets a glimpse of a stone gaze that – she will later learn – both sides of the law on the west coast fear and respect._

" _Option one. Drop your foolish quest. You have the passion, the heart. But not the resolve. You lack the 'I will do anything necessary' ingredient. It will not end well for you."_

 _He stands now, moving away from her, and grabs the half empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table and takes it with him to the small kitchen. He places it in the refrigerator, and returns to the living room._

" _Option two. Give your quest to me." He sees the stunned look on her face, and holds his hand up one more time. "I have the resolve, and I have the resources. What your police force did not want to find, I will find. And it won't take me years, Kate. More like months."_

 _Her mind is racing with questions. Option two is no option at all. Release her thirst for justice? Give it to someone else? Even an old friend? Not an option. But there is something about Sam, about how he talks, about what he says. There is a confidence. It's almost as if . . . almost as if he already knows something he isn't sharing. He begins answering her unasked questions._

" _I'd start with your police captain," he says, still not smiling anymore. "If there is a police cover-up, and I suspect you believe there is, then the person or persons involved in such a cover-up would want you close, they would want you where they could keep an eye on you. They would call it protection, but it is anything but."_

" _There is no way that Roy Montgomery would –"_

" _And this, Kate, is why Option two is your only chance for justice. You lack the resolve to do what is necessary, to suspect what is necessary, to believe what is necessary."_

 _He pulls her up off the sofa, and begins walking toward the door._

" _You're . . . you're leaving?" she asks, and the pain in her voice is evident._

" _I have a plane to catch," he says simply._

" _At this hour?" she questions, glancing at her watch._

" _Let me put it differently," he tells her, his smile returning. "I own a plane, and it is time for me to leave on that plane."_

 _He laughs at the look she gives him._

" _Different sides of the law, detective. Different sides of the ledger."_

 _He opens the door, still holding one of her hands._

" _Drop it, Beckster. Option one will give you frustration, but eventually you will be at peace with yourself. Because you don't belong down here in the darkness, down the rabbit hole. It's not who you are. It is who I am. Let it go. Get your life back. Be a good cop. There are not enough of those," he spits. He kisses her cheek, and is gone, closing the door behind him._

 **. . . . . . . . . . . . .**

 _ **Saturday, February 20, 2012 – 9:51p.m. – At Richard Castle's Home in Sausalito**_

"My God, he was right about Roy," Castle whistles in surprise.

"He was right about a lot of things, Rick," Kate concurs. "But trust me, I owe Sam. So I trust him when he says he can discover things, uncover things. He has . . ."

"Resolve," Castle finishes the sentence for her.

"Sam saved me," she continues. "He did what no one else was able to do. He got me to – at least for a while – let it go. He got me to back off, get my bearings back. Get my dreams back. He showed me who he was, who he had become. He asked me if I was willing to go that far, fall that far down the rabbit hole to where there is no return."

"You said no."

"I said no."

They are quiet for a few moments, each in their own thoughts. Kate marvels at how she has left the police force, but not left the chaos. She has moved across the country, yet the darkness that Sam spoke so eloquently about all those years ago – murders, kidnappings, abuse – they all remain in place, in this new place.

Castle himself marvels at how this new quest of his, helping battered women, continues to uncover entirely unexpected – and often nefarious - activities.

Minutes later, they are drifting off to sleep. There is enough waiting for them for tomorrow. Suddenly, another thought hits him.

"Kate?"

"Mmmm," she mutters, as sleep is fast approaching.

"Do you think that Sam ever figured out who killed your mother? Do you think he ever figured out it was Bracken?"

Kate is silent for a few seconds, and for an instant, Castle thinks she is asleep. Then she answers.

"I think he figured that out a long time ago, Castle."

 **A/N:** Not much happening in this chapter on the surface, but it is all necessary for where we are going, both for this story and beyond. Sam Carlos – and his history with Kate – will be important for her west coast life. No, that doesn't mean any unnecessary angst with Kate and Castle – just some filling in the blanks and interesting ideas that are swimming in my head.

Writing is coming a little slower for me these days, and my thanks to Perspex13 and GeekMom for some great new stories that have kept me afloat a few times in the past weeks. Check their stories out if you get a chance.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Sunday, February 21, 2012 – 7:17 a.m. – In Chinatown, San Francisco**_

Eddie Baker moves his head from side to side, taking in his surroundings. The three young men stand, one on each wall of the room, save the wall where the door is, which is behind him. They have him seated facing away from the door. It's a surreal moment, as he is untied – they didn't even bother tying him down, thankfully – and they leave the door behind him unattended, almost daring the man to try an escape.

Baker runs the prostitution trade in the North Beach area of San Francisco, just outside Chinatown off Grant Street. This morning he sits in this chair in a strange room, having been roused out of sleep far too early after a late Saturday night with his girls and clients. He has been sitting here in this chair under a form of house arrest – he's not exactly sure where he is – for just under thirty minutes now. Clearly these men are waiting for someone, or something.

Up to this point, there have been no questions. There has been no conflict. In fact, their lack of aggression is what is concerning to him right now. It's obvious that whoever is behind this knows who he is, and therefore, also knows the hell they have just brought down on themselves by taking him - their decent treatment of him notwithstanding. That said, whoever has done this doesn't seem too concerned about any repercussions or retaliation from Eddie, and that's what scares him even more. He has no idea of who would fit that description, who would so casually disrespect him.

Suddenly a voice behind him startles him back to the present.

"No need to stand up, Mr. Baker," the voice commands. "I just want to talk for a few moments."

" _Oh God, I know that voice,"_ Eddie Baker thinks to himself as he attempts – unsuccessfully – to suppress a strong shudder. The accompanying smirk from one of the goons against the wall only heightens his discomfort. Regardless, the identity of the owner of the voice behind him brings all of his previous concerns front and center. Eddie knows that Sam Carlos rarely gets involved directly with anything. Carlos has far too many people – in city hall, on the police force, in hospitals, on the streets – who are fiercely loyal to the man. They do his work for him. For him to make an appearance directly usually means something has gone horribly wrong.

The authorities incorrectly consider Sam to be a gang leader, which is how Sam likes it. In reality, that is merely the disguise he wears. He wants people to see him as nothing more than the leader of street thugs when – in truth – he is the leader of a well-oiled machine, an organization that reaches into business, into industry, into city government. An organization that takes young men and women through their college years – often paying for their tuition – into adulthood. If you don't learn a trade, if you don't become immersed into some form of an industry or government, then you are of no use to Sam Carlos.

So yeah, the fact that it is Carlos himself who shows up to ask questions directly of Eddie Baker is indeed frightening.

"I'm sure you know who I am," Carlos begins, "so let's not waste time with pleasantries. Time is something of a critical nature here, so I will be brief."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Carlos?" Eddie asks, trying to retrieve some form of control to the situation.

"Women are going missing, Mr. Baker," Carlos replies affably. He will give the man kudos for having stones in this situation. It fits with everything he has heard about the large black man.

"So I've heard," Baker acknowledges. "None of them are mine."

"Or mine," Sam agrees. "That could change."

"Is that something I should be worried about?" Baker asks, as Carlos pulls up a chair and sits in front of him.

"You'd be a fool not to," Carlos replies. "And I know you not to be a fool."

"So why exactly am I here, Mr. Carlos?" he asks, his confidence slightly increasing.

"You are here so that we can talk."

"And kidnapping me in the wee hours of the morning is your solution for us to talk about kidnapped women?"

Eddie Baker realizes his mistake before the final words leave his lips. His frustration with this morning is finally bubbling over, and the easy, nonchalant manner in which Sam Carlos is treating him is completely disarming. He quickly tries to recover but Sam holds a hand up, halting his attempt at reconciliation.

"Would you have preferred the alternative, Mr. Baker?" Sam asks, the malice now clearly evident in his voice, accompanied by a new, menacing smile. Carlos is a dangerous man when he is smiling. Baker knows this, and another involuntary shudder shakes him as Carlos continues.

"Because I can arrange that alternative. A public meeting where your enemies – who we both know monitor your every move - see you walk out of your home and into a nice restaurant where you and I have this talk. Where they begin to wonder why you are meeting with me. Where they begin to question your vision, your loyalties. Oh, Eddie, I love when – in our line of business – one's enemies begin to have these questions. Life expectancy drops significantly at that point."

"You're right, you're right," Eddie attempts, but is interrupted by Carlos once again.

"No, perhaps you are correct, Eddie. Having my friends here rouse you out of your bed and toss you into a bag and into the laundry cart and out through the garage as part of the trash . . . away from the prying eyes . . . perhaps that was far too demeaning. I shall correct this offence immediately, my friend. I shall have my friends here drop you off personally from my limo at your residence, my window rolled down, me offering a friendly wave thanking you for your business as I drive away."

Carlos struggles to refrain from laughing as he watches the look of horror on Baker's face. It's almost comical. But, as Sam originally presented, time is critical right now.

"Now, if we can move past these unnecessary pleasantries which – if memory serves – I clearly stated we did not need to cover, we can get down to business. I need a couple of answers, Mr. Baker."

"Anything you need," Baker quickly nods his head in agreement, eager to accept what he knows to be a very tentative olive branch from one of the most dangerous men in the Bay Area.

"First," Carlos begins, "someone is kidnapping women from our city. This is no secret. The purpose for the kidnappings is to traffic these women sexually."

"I've heard the same," Baker agrees. "Something about some new market developing down south of the border."

Okay, so this lines up with what Sam has heard on the street as well. So Eddie doesn't know anything more. Sam, however, is not convinced. Street rumors aside, kidnapping these women from San Francisco for transport to Mexico simply makes no sense. There is a far easier solution.

"Second question," Carlos says, filing this information away, for the moment. "Have you seen a change in your own market? Have you seen a shift in any of your key customers away from you? Any key clients suddenly spending less time with your girls?"

The slight change in Baker's face gives Sam his answer, as he files this away also.

"The rumors are false," Carlos continues, not allowing Baker to answer the question audibly. He's already answered the question with his facial expression.

"These rumors, they are a subtle misdirect, Mr. Baker. Someone has gone to great lengths to step into your business. I am surprised you have not figured that out before this moment, but I digress," he adds, twisting the knife before continuing.

"Someone is kidnapping women from our city – and this person or persons has a particular taste. Blondes. Any race, as long as they are blondes. And they are taking these women to Mexico? Ridiculous," he laughs derisively. "Far easier to sift from the golden hairs in San Diego, and drive them across the border and no one would pay attention if they took them south in a bright yellow bus. It's easier, cheaper and moved in far greater volume than we are seeing, if they sample the San Diego market."

Eddie is processing this new viewpoint, and asks the natural question. At least it seems natural to him at the time.

"How do you know that this person isn't taking women from Southern California as well as –"

"Because I make it my business to know these things, Mr. Baker," Carlos interrupts, now standing up, indicating the meeting is coming to a close. "I – once again – am stunned that you do not make it your business to know these things as well."

Carlos once again files away this new information about Baker for future use. He's a tough guy, yes, but lacks attention to detail.

"However, you have my thanks, Mr. Baker, as you have told me what I need to know – and you have done so in a very honest and forthcoming manner. I value honesty in a man. And so a word of caution, from one man to another. Open your eyes. Someone is slowly fleecing your golden goose. Were it me, I would want to know who they are."

With that, Sam Carlos leaves, his suspicions confirmed. Word on the street is that these women have been taken down south. However, the one man whose business thrives – depends – on rich men, and sometimes women, having a particular taste and the dollars to spend for those tastes – that man is feeling a pinch on his business. And his business is here, in the city. So whoever is taking these women wants people to believe that these women have been taking south, when in fact, they are still here.

Which will make finding these women much easier.

Minutes later, Carlos is in his limo parked in a back alley off Chinatown and in motion. He reaches into his suit jacket pocket, retrieving his phone, quickly hitting a contact, smiling as he does. He gives it a few rings, before his smile broadens.

"Hello Jennifer."

"A bit early even for you, isn't it Sam?" she replies groggily.

"You are the one with sleep dripping from your voice," he counters. "I remember that sound well."

"I'm sure you didn't wake me out of a nice dream for a walk down memory lane, Sam," she offers with a yawn. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, Jen. It's what I can do for you. Are you hungry?"

"Always," she chuckles.

"Ah, I remember that also. Same diner, Union Square?"

"Give me forty five minutes," she tells him, now swinging her legs out across the bed and onto the floor.

"See you then," Sam tells her.

"Sam?"

"Yes, Jen."

"Thank you."

"Let's hear what I have to say first. I think you will be far happier than just 'thank you.'"

With that, Sam hangs up, and punches in another contact. This time the phone rings twice before a second groggy voice answers.

"Beckett," she answers almost by habit.

"Ah, Katie, so official," he chuckles.

"Sam?" she replies with surprise, wondering exactly how Sam Carlos has her cell phone. She makes a mental note to slap Jennifer Blackard upside her head as she speaks. She sits up straight in the bed, tapping the sleeping form next to her.

"Much as I would love to chat with you, Kate, it is your better half who I suspect is asleep next to you that is of interest to me. Can you awaken him?"

"Seriously?" she asks, surprised.

"Seriously," he replies, playing their old word game. "Ask him if he can meet me this afternoon at – oh, let's say 1pm," he says as he glances at his watch, mentally allocating time for breakfast with Jennifer Blackard.

She places a hand over the phone, muffling her conversation with Castle.

"Babe?" she says, ready to shake him but noticing he is already stirring, eyes opening.

"Who is it?" he asks.

"Sam Carlos," she tells him, watching him come to immediate attention. She has told him enough about Sam Carlos for him to realize that this isn't a Sunday church chat.

"What does he want?" he asks.

"Actually . . . he wants you," she tells him, and chuckles at the eyebrow raise he gives her. "Wants to sit down with you at one o'clock this afternoon."

"Me?" he asks again.

"Very clear about it, Rick," she smiles. "I'll be honest, I don't know what it means – but Sam is as master of using resources. I would suspect he wants a favor from you."

"Is that good news or bad news?" he laughs, rubbing his hands through his head. "Where?"

She removes her hand, now focusing the conversation back on Carlos on the other end.

"Where?"

"His call," Sam says quickly.

Rather than continue as the intermediary, Kate simply hands Castle the phone. His bug-eyed response once again brings her to laughter.

"This is Richard Castle," he states, trying desperately to sound as if he has been awake for hours.

"Mr. Castle," Sam begins. "Nice to meet you – and I look forward to a more formal and normal meeting this afternoon. I was asking Kate where we can meet. It is my request, so the choice of location is yours."

"How about my house?" Castle replies, and now has to stifle his own chuckle as he sees the look of horror on Kate Beckett's face.

Carlos, for his part, smiles inwardly. Very bold, inviting a man such as Sam Carlos into your home.

" _Oh Kate, I like him already,"_ Carlos thinks to himself as he answers.

"That will be fine, Mr. Castle."

"Great," Castle replies. "Easiest way to get here is to –"

"No need, Mr. Castle," Carlos smiles, knowing he is getting ready to rock the author/philanthropist a bit. "I know where you live."

With that, Carlos hangs up, knowing the tiny little bomb he has just tossed into the Castle home this morning. As Kate Beckett has surmised, Carlos is – if nothing else – a master of using the resources available to him. And right now, he needs a little out-of-the-box thinking that a certain mystery writer might be able to provide.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Sunday, February 21, 2012 – 12:58 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Residence in Sausalito, California**_

Sam Carlos walks into the expansive entry way, taking in the eclectic tastes of its owner, as he offers his hand to his host.

"Richard Castle. I'm a fan."

"I'm honored," Castle replies, taking Sam Carlos' offered hand in his with a firm shake. Earlier this morning, Kate Beckett had warned Castle about the little nuances of dealing with Sam Carlos; be firm, take charge but be deferential at the same time.

After a few minutes of 'suggestions' from Kate, both of them had been reduced to laughter as she realized exactly who she was talking to. If there was anyone who didn't need lessons on dealing with the more nefarious side of the law, it was Richard Castle. Whether it was dealing with urban drug runners, Italian mafia or Irish mobsters – Castle had moved in and out of those circles back in New York far more easily than Beckett could have ever imagined. In fact, the only close shave – so to speak – that still gave either of them pause was an instance at a poker game with some Russian gangsters. And even that was more than worth it from Castle's point of view, as it gave him his first real glimpse of the purely sexual Beckett, complete with short dress and that European accent that she will occasionally slip into during their more playful nocturnal activities.

So yeah, Richard Castle knows how to handle this.

"Kate has told me . . . well, not a whole lot about you, but enough," Castle begins.

"Enough to what?" Carlos asks, glancing at Kate, who stands next to Castle, already rolling her eyes.

"Enough to keep me interested," Castle deadpans with a smile.

"I knew I'd like you," Carlos smiles in return, letting go of Castle's hand as he takes a step toward Beckett. Kate opens her arms and receives her old friend in a warm embrace.

"Twice in two days," Carlos tells her. "I certainly hope that this becomes more routine," he offers, glancing between Castle and Beckett.

"Hah," Castle laughs, giving Sam's shoulder a slight squeeze. "Nothing in this house is routine, believe me."

Carlos nods his head, smiling while glancing at the offending hand that is on his shoulder. Clearly he is a man not used to being 'handled' in such a manner. He immediately recognizes, however, that his host means no disrespect. He immediately recognizes that – in fact – his host is treating him as if he is an old family friend. No doubt for Kate Beckett's benefit. He makes a mental note, another positive tick-mark in the mental ledger he carries in his mind for one Richard Castle.

"I am sure that is true, Mr. Castle –"

"Rick. Or Castle. Either one. My father is named Mr. Castle . . . okay, that's not exactly true. Truth be told, I have no idea what the man's real name is," Castle corrects himself, somewhat flustered as he thinks back to a December meeting just a couple of months ago. The raw honesty being shown is a breath of fresh air for Sam Carlos, who realizes that the couple in front of him are simply treating him like . . . like anyone else they might meet. He cannot help but chuckle at the sudden nervousness Castle exposes simply by mentioning his father. Another mental note for the file.

"You've never met your father?" Carlos asks, and immediately sees the conflict on the face of his host. Clearly this is a sore subject. He thinks about his own mother and her death, and the death of Johanna Beckett.

" _What is it about the three of us and our parents?"_ he wonders silently, taking in Castle's internal battle.

"Once," Castle finally replies, deciding that – based upon what Kate has told him – it is probably a very bad idea to lie to this man about anything, be it small or large. Fortunately, Carlos gives him a reprieve, changing the subject.

"I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me this afternoon, Mr. Castle," Sam tells him. Sure, Castle has told him to call him 'Rick', or even use simply his last name. And yes, Sam is feeling far more comfortable in this setting than he ever imagined he might. But old habits die hard, and he prefers the more formal approach, picking and choosing when to use first names as it suits the situation.

"Is there a place we can . . . "

"Yes, yes," Castle replies immediately. "Forgive my manners, I'm sure none of us want to just stand here in the foyer for an hour. Let's take this to the den."

A few seconds later, Sam Carlos and Richard Castle walk into the brightly lit den, as the sunlight blasts through the large floor to ceiling window.

"Kate? C'mon," Castle beckons to Kate, who has lagged behind.

"I wasn't sure if –"

"Nonsense, Katie," Sam interrupts her, smiling a genuine smile. "It is clear that this is a pairing here, and I want this to be as amicable as possible."

Castle walks to the small bar and grabs three tumblers in one hand.

"Scotch all right?" he asks.

"Perfect," Carlos replies, now glancing at Kate. He watches Castle pour three glasses and smiles again.

"Moved on to the harder stuff, Katie?" Carlos comments. "You were a beer and wine girl, if memory serves. Other than the occasional margarita, that is."

"People change, Sam," Kate replies comfortably.

"Indeed. We do," Sam agrees, taking the tumbler from Castle, and joins them as three glasses click together in a toasting motion.

"So, what can I do for you, Mr. Carlos?" Castle begins, and Carlos pauses briefly once again, noting that Castle has opted for the more formal approach now, matching his own. Carlos takes a seat in the large chair next to the sofa as he begins.

"I had a very informative conversation this morning with . . . a person who is well acquainted with the world's oldest profession and how it works in the city," Carlos begins, bringing a broad grin to Castle's face.

"Oooh, I like him, Kate. Great vocabulary," Castle notes appreciatively.

"Stanford graduate, Castle," Kate replies, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

"Oh, that's right. That's right," Castle agrees, then looks back at Carlos. "Sorry, please continue – and please continue marinating your words in such sweet sauces."

"Really?" Carlos asks, an eyebrow raised.

"Too much?" Castle offers.

"Just a bit," Carlos replies, still smiling, playing nice.

"Anyway," Carlos continues, "as a result of this conversation, I have . . ."

Carlos pauses, taking in Castle for a moment, before making up his mind. Castle is an author. Perhaps it's best to simply tell him a story and let him fill in the blanks. That's why he's here, after all. To get a few blanks filled in.

"Let me tell you a story, Mr. Castle. I think you would appreciate a story far more than me dumping a file of facts into your lap. There is this person – let's just refer to him as Bob for now. Bob is kidnapping women. Scratch that – let me be as accurate as possible. Bob has certain accomplices who do his nefarious work for him. They are abducting women. They are taking these women down south, across the border to Bob, where he is showcasing them to his clients. At least that's the truth that Bob wants drifting through the streets, as rumors."

This last bit raises eyebrows from both Kate and Castle, as they exchange curious looks between them, as Carlos continues.

"The reality, however, is that Bob is keeping the women here. If he were to want to start a new business in Mexico, he need go no further than –"

"San Diego," Castle finishes for him, taking a sip of scotch, his eyes dancing and his mind now racing with possibilities, with plot twists. It's evident on his face, and Carlos smiles again – this is precisely what he wanted; an engaged and imaginative Richard Castle.

"Yes, Mr. Castle, that is the same conclusion I have come to as well," Carlos agrees. "Yet the streets are convinced that whatever is happening, it is happening down in Mexico. However, there is another man. Let's say his name is Eddie, hypothetically," Carlos says, and for just a moment Castle gets a glimpse of something different on Sam Carlos' face. He cannot place it, and so he files this away for a future conversation with Kate, wondering if she has seen it as well.

"Eddie runs the prostitution business in the city, and Eddie has noticed a change in the behavior of his clientele. Some key players are dropping off. Now, Mr. Castle . . . Kate . . . men – or women – who sample the professional women don't just 'drop off'. They don't stop. If they stop coming around, that just means that they have found new product to sample."

Castle nods his head excitedly, now making no bones about the notes he is taking with pen and paper. Sure, this is good information to have in his new role, but . . . well, once a writer, always a writer. This will come in handy some day in more ways than one.

"So – here is what we have, Mr. Castle," Sam continues. We have the beginnings of a good story. Women abducted. The authorities listen to their street sources which tell them these women have been taken south of the border. Your hero for the story, however – some great mystery solver, a detective – let's call him . . . no, no, given current company and . . . friends of current company, let's make this detective a woman," Carlos smiles, glancing at Kate.

"Let's call her Beckard," Carlos smiles.

"See, he knows how to do this," Castle muses aloud, still jotting notes, while Kate replies with a simple punch to his arm.

"Beckard, our champion, is not convinced. She sees the change in Eddie's market, and she realizes that the women are still here. Somewhere," Carlos continues. "But here is the challenge. Here is the hole in my plot, Mr. Castle."

"Couple of holes, actually," Castle leads in.

"True," Carlos acknowledges. Kate meanwhile, is taking in this surreal scene with a sense of . . . well, awe. Here is her soulmate, the love of her life – an author and philanthropist – having a casual conversation about abducted women with a long-lost friend of hers who happens to be one of the most dangerous, feared and untouchable criminals on the west coast. And their conversation is couched within a hypothetical story that she realizes is anything but hypothetical.

"First problem," Carlos continues, "is where are the women being held?"

"No," Castle corrects him, causing another strange glance from Sam Carlos. "The first problem is, who are the . . . customers who have fallen off? Who are Eddie's clients that are no longer spending as much time with his girls? If you are right – and I have no reason to doubt you are – then they have found someone newer, something more appetizing. If I am writing the story, then that's where Beckard starts. You can't just jump to the obvious question when writing. Makes for a very short – and very unrealistic – story."

Sam Carlos is smiling broadly now, glancing at Kate, who simply shrugs her shoulders with a smile herself.

"It's what he does," she chuckles, as Castle continues.

"The only hole in this thinking, however, is that I find it hard to believe that these customers – probably Eddie's highest paying customers – could curtail their business without Eddie noticing, or becoming concerned."

Now Sam is laughing, and for the first time, it isn't the mirthful laugh that Kate and Castle have seen earlier. No, this is something else.

"Let's just say that Eddie is not the brightest character in your story, Mr. Castle, and leave it at that."

"Okay, Eddie's not too bright," Castle agrees, jotting this down on his paper as well, scribbling out some other note. "Got it. So Eddie has his stable of women who –"

"Stable?" Kate almost bellows, indignantly.

"Please, Kate," both Castle and Carlos offer simultaneously. The men glance at each other in surprise while Kate stands up.

"Great, just great," she muses almost silently, while grabbing each man's glass. I'm getting us all refills. She saunters away, with Castle's eyes fixated on the swaying hips.

"Focus, Mr. Castle," Carlos chuckles, bringing Castle back to the moment.

"Always," Rick responds, just loud enough for Kate to hear. She offers him a sultry smile then turns to the drinks at hand.

"Perhaps 'stable' was the wrong choice of words," Castle acknowledges with a whisper to Carlos. Carlos unnerves him completely with his answer.

"No, Mr. Castle . . . Trust me when I say this, 'stable' is precisely the most accurate word you could have used."

The look on Castle's face is priceless until Sam Carlos reminds himself exactly what one Richard Castle is doing in the Bay Area. He has built his own namesake in order to help battered and abused women. You don't do something like this on a whim. There has to be a fire, a passion, deep-seated inside a person to have that kind of vision, and to follow through on it. So yeah, Carlos realizes that Richard Castle is probably only now – for the first time in his life – mentally forming a picture of what it is like for the women who choose the world's oldest profession. Women who are – in most cases – more or less owned by another person.

"Not a pretty picture, is it, Mr. Castle," Carlos asks, and is pleased to see the quick shake of the head from the author. "It's why that is one of the areas that I refrain from . . . it is one of the things I detest. And I detest the men – or women – who run and control this type of business." Carlos thinks once again of Eddie Baker, a man for whom he has little respect and likes even less. He decides at this moment that Eddie has lived on the women of San Francisco long enough.

He is also pleased that Castle has moved on, and is back to the business at hand.

"So, women are disappearing from the city. The street is telling the authorities that the women are being taken down south. Our hero," he says, glancing at Kate who reappears with three filled tumblers, "our hero doesn't believe the street, because she has connections with the man who runs the local brothel business who is seeing a slip in his business. This tells our hero that the abducted women are still here in the city, and are being used to attract business away from the established . . . providers," Castle continues, choosing his words carefully.

"And her first objective," Carlos now interjects, glancing at Kate for confirmation, "would be to identify and interview some of the clients who seem to have found a better way of spending their money."

Kate glances between the men, and nods her head in agreement. Castle continues.

"That's the first branch I would write," Castle tells him. "The second branch? Find out where the women are being held. Because of the first branch, this becomes easy. Where are the clients going to obtain the new product? Find where the consumer is going for the new business. Find that, and we find the women."

Carlos nods his head, smiling. This was – indeed – a stroke of genius to pull a well-known, out-of-the-box mystery writer into the equation. He just thinks differently. He considers possibilities that Sam would normally consider implausible, and makes them not just plausible . . . but even probable. Sam can already see, already sense how this can turn out.

"So, your hero would interview these clients," Carlos exhales, after a short pause.

"She would probably start with Eddie," Kate interrupts, drawing glances from both men, as Castle nods his head appreciatively.

"Already did," Carlos says simply, "but it appears I did not ask the correct question."

"Allow me," Kate requests, "as a private investigator. Or Jennifer."

Carlos considers this for a moment. He doesn't like Eddie, and isn't quite sure how he will react the next time he sees the man. Allowing Kate and Jennifer a crack at him is probably the wiser move. For the moment.

"Agreed," he finally says with a smile. "That done, how would your story unfold after that, Mr. Castle?"

"Well," Castle thinks, stroking his chin with his left hand, "the question of Bob's identity is the obvious reveal. But before that, I'd devote some time to showing the reader who the actual perpetrators of the kidnappings were. How did they pull it off? And there has to be more than one person. We know that most of these kidnappings occurred either on a city bus, or as the women were waiting for a bus, or disembarking from a bus. Way too hard to have just one person dragging a screaming woman away with no one the wiser."

"Agreed," Carlos replies, taking another sip of scotch. "Foolish not to have at least two, and back-up for them," as he unknowingly provides Castle with a bit of insight into his mindset as well.

"Finding the perpetrators is a second branch in finding where the women are being held. After all, it is doubtful that the perpetrators don't know where . . ."

Castle pauses, scribbling something out yet again, and now a smile crosses his face. Carlos opens his mouth to speak, but catches a hand gesture from Kate.

"No," she mouths. "Let him think it out," she mouths silently, and he nods in confirmation.

"Oh yes!" Castle exclaims. "Oh yes, that _is_ sweet."

He continues writing, glancing up at his lover and his guest occasionally. Finally, he looks up, grabs the tumbler and takes a long swallow.

"The natural story," he begins, "is that the kidnappers grab the women and take them to . . . Bob, right? That's our main antagonist."

"Correct," Sam agrees.

"The natural story," Castle continues, "is that they grab the women and take them to Bob. The better story? Oh yes, this is good. The better story is that even the kidnappers do not realize that the women are still in the city!"

Castle immediately notices the looks of doubt on the faces of the man and woman with him, which only excites him further.

"No, no, c'mon, trust me – this is better," Castle almost pleads. "I am kidnapping women. I am taking them off a bus. Or capturing them at a bus stop. So I am probably drugging them. Somehow. I'd use a needle. Old school, but effective. I'd have two guys working it," he says, nodding his head in deference to Sam's thought.

"Two guys take the woman away. They put her in a car. If the street thinks that these girls are going south, that means that the guys who take her must also think she is going south, because . . . because they _are_ the street! They believe the women have been taken south, and that's what they allow to slip out."

"Hmmm," is all Sam Carlos says, taking this in.

"Where does the street say they are going, Mr. Carlos? Specifically, I mean," Castle asks.

"Playas de Rosarito," Carlos tells him.

"Coastal town, south of Tijuana," Castle muses aloud. "Sweet. Yeah, that works. That works. Eliminates the border sequence. Getting a drugged woman across the border – that's a hole in the plot. If they are going to Playas de Rosarito, then we have a boat. They'd transport the women by boat. Which means the kidnappers are taking the women to a boat somewhere in the city for the trip south."

"Only there is no trip south, Mr. Castle," Carlos argues.

"Irrelevant," Castle dismisses the thought with a hand gesture, waving the thought away as if it were a pesky mosquito. "The idea is to make people think you are taking them south. The idea is to plant the thought that they can't risk a border incident, and so they take to the high seas," he bellows, drawing the third eye roll from Beckett in one day.

"But they don't take the women south," Castle continues on, excitedly. "They take them somewhere else. Either they keep them on the boat – which means that's where our clients are meeting them. That would be cool. I could see that. That's where business is transacted . . . or they are taking them somewhere close."

"Why not back into the city?" Carlos asks.

"Because you would know," Castle tells him. "And by you, I mean you personally. You, Sam Carlos. You would know. You have ears everywhere. Someone would have told you. The fact that no one has told you means that the clients have been sworn to secrecy. And it also means that the clients aren't doing business in the city."

Carlos doesn't react, but he believes this hypothesis. Yeah, he would know. And the fact that he _doesn't_ know is what concerns him.

"Where then?" Kate asks aloud, herself now wondering.

For a full minute, the room is silent as each of them consider Kate's question. The only sound is the intermittent ice rattling the glass walls of the tumblers, being shaken back and forth. Suddenly, Castle stands and walks out of the room, leaving Kate and Sam sitting speechless, staring at each other. Finally, Kate stands, and walks out of the room in search of Castle, with Sam behind her.

"Castle?" she calls out. "Rick?"

The two roam through the downstairs before Kate sees Castle on the large, expansive patio overlooking the bay. She and Carlos walk through the exquisite french doors where Castle stands on the rail, staring out at the water in the distance.

"Mr. Castle?" Carlos asks, and glances out at the water in the distance, wondering what Castle is looking at. Finally, the author speaks.

"The island," he says simply. "That's how I would write it. That's where they would be."

"Alcatraz?" Kate asks, the doubt in her voice. That's too creepy even for the horniest man or woman. Far better places to sow one's oats, so to speak.

"No," Castle tells them both. "Not Alcatraz. Too obvious. And too-overused, too over-exposed. No, the big island, right there."

"Angel Island," Sam Carlos says with a whisper, and a broad smile crosses his face as he nods his head contentedly.

"Did you get all of this Jennifer?" Sam smiles as he leans his head to the side, over his shoulder, as he reaches back across his chest with his right hand, and retrieves the small bug on the lapel on the back collar of his shirt. Both Castle and Beckett stare in wonder at the scene playing out in front of them. They watch as Carlos smiles at the offensive item, drops it to the stone patio floor and steps on it. Roughly twenty seconds later, Sam Carlos' cell phone rings, bringing yet another smile to his face.

"Hello, Detective," he begins, speaking into his phone. "Good try. I almost missed it this time. I'm sure you heard all of this, and you have at least the beginnings of your answers. Ping me again sometime soon."

He hangs up, smiling, then turns to both Castle and Kate.

"My compliments, Mr. Castle. You have – in less than half an hour – given me more information, given me more to think about, given me more enjoyment than what usually takes hours in my line of business. I hope that we meet again – sooner than later."

Castle reaches across to shake his hand, which Carlos accepts. The two men regard one another for just a brief instant.

"Yes, I do trust that our paths will cross again. You never know, Mr. Castle, given your investment here in Sausalito, when you might need my assistance."

Normally, Sam Carlos sees fear, trepidation, or at the very least, strong concern on the faces of men at this point of their conversations. He is pleasantly surprised – again – to see none of that on the face of Richard Castle.

"You know, you are probably right about that," Castle admits. "I look forward to that," he says, pulling Kate closer to him.

Carlos nods in agreement, then reaches for Kate, who leans in, accepting a kiss to the cheek.

"No doubt, Jennifer will be calling you shortly," he smiles, and receives a nod from Kate. "You both know where to find me, how to find me."

With that, Sam Carlos walks back through the french doors, and out the front door. Seconds later, Castle and Kate glance down at the man walking across the street to the limo parked there. He turns and looks back at the patio at the couple there, offering a salute, which is returned by Castle. Kate waves goodbye.

Before sliding into the car, however, Carlos looks down the street and twirls a single finger in the air. Suddenly, two motorcycles roar to life from down the street and slide into place next to Carlos. He says a few words, and the two cycles are off and running in the distance as Sam slides in behind the wheel.

" _Back-up indeed,"_ Castle thinks to himself, and smiles as Kate's cell phone rings. Both glance down, and see Jennifer's face and contact information spring to life on Kate's screen.

"She's all yours," Castle smiles, and walks back inside.


	11. Chapter 11

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Sunday, February 21, 2012 – 1:40 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Residence in Sausalito, California**_

"You actually bugged Sam?" Kate questions into her phone, making no attempt whatsoever to hide the surprise in her voice.

"He always finds it," Detective Jennifer Blackard replies, smiling at the other end. "It's almost a game now. I think he'd be disappointed if I didn't at least try."

"I'm impressed," Kate offers, while biting into an apple that Richard Castle has just tossed her way as he makes his way out of the kitchen.

"Don't be," Jennifer readily admits. "If I thought for even a moment Sam would react . . . poorly . . . I would never try it again. As it is, I'm glad he allowed me to listen in on the conversation."

"I would have told you everything you wanted to –"

"No, you wouldn't," Jennifer interrupts. "You would have inadvertently left things out. I hope you don't mind, but I just wanted to see your . . . your . . . I wanted to see Castle in action. To see how he thinks, how his mind works. You were right. From my vantage point, it was pretty cool to see. Okay, not see. Hear."

"His mind does work . . . differently," Kate chuckles, and her chuckle turns into a broad grin as the object of their conversation pops his head around the corner.

"Your ears are as big as your ego, Castle," she calls to him.

"And exactly which ego are you talking about?" he laughs, with a double wiggle of the eyebrows, causing a classic roll of the eyes from Kate.

"Anyway," she says, now ignoring Castle who has just as quickly popped out of the kitchen, refocusing her attention on the woman at the other end of the line. "What do you think about Castle's little hypothesis."

"I have to admit, a lot of it makes sense, Kate," Jennifer tells her, and Kate can hear her chewing something herself on the other end. "You know that most of the abductions have occurred on or near buses. But a couple of them occurred down at the wharf. Near the water."

"Very easy to get a woman on a boat from there," Kate agrees. "And even if they take the women on a bus, it is just as easy to take someone to a boat as it is to any building on land."

"That's how I see it, also," Jennifer concurs. "Angel Island, though – that's a good one. It's a state park now, administered by the state. Much of it is deserted in spots – it used to be used heavily by the Army, ranging from the American Civil War through World War II. It was also used as an immigration processing station for millions of incoming immigrants – primarily Asians – into the country back in the early to mid-1900's. Neither of those usages are in existence there today. Now it's mostly a tourist destination."

"And possible more," Kate offers heavily. "I can see how something like this could occur right under everyone's noses on an island that large."

"When you think about it – pretty much every abduction occurred either at night, or in the wee hours of the morning," Jennifer says, warming up to the idea more with each passing moment.

"Which means getting someone to one of the piers in the cover of darkness, and a short boat ride out to the island – also in the cover of darkness," Kate agrees.

"With no one the wiser. There's always activity down on the piers late at night," Jennifer says, nodding to herself.

"So, the question is – how do we get out there and take a look around?" Kate wonders aloud. Castle, of course, picks this moment to pop his head around the corner again.

"We play tourists," he says excitedly. "You've never been out there, and I've only been there once," he adds. "So we'd be playing the part honestly."

"You've been out there once before?" Kate asks, wondering what would have sent Castle out to a touristy state park in the middle of the bay.

"It was one of the locations I was considering for the Castles Complex," he admits. "Secluded, beautiful views, actually perfect for what I wanted. Until I considered the reality of the situation. How is an escaping woman going to get out there? Row a boat? And then there was the unlikelihood of purchasing land from the state of California in any timely manner."

"Earth to Beckett," Kate hears the voice in the phone call out to her.

"Sorry, Jen," Kate apologizes, immediately putting the phone on speaker so that Castle and Jennifer can hear one another.

"Might as well stay here, Rick," Kate smiles at him, receiving a soft pat on the rear as Castle passes by on the way to the refrigerator. "Rick suggests we play tourists," Kate repeats into the phone for Jennifer's benefit.

"By we, I mean Kate and I," Castle corrects. "You're a cop, Detective Blackard, and who knows who we are dealing with and whether they know you or not. Seeing a cop there might spook our party. But seeing Kate and I? We are just tourists, catching the sights."

"I don't like it," Jennifer begins, but then recalls who she is dealing with. Ex-Detective-turned-private-investigator Kate Beckett can more than take care of herself and likely anything they have to deal with on the island, short of military force.

"On second thought," Jennifer continues, reconsidering, "I know Kate can take care of herself, and after – what was it – four years of shadowing, I have to assume Mr. Castle, you have learned a thing or two yourself."

"Thank you for the very back-handed compliment, Detective," Castle states, while biting into an apple of his own now. "So, what's our play?" Castle questions.

"Jennifer, how soon can you be here?" Kate asks. "It would be nice to sit down together to map this out."

"Let's just say that I have been headed your way for most of your conversation with Sam," Jennifer replies with a laugh. "I should be there in less than five minutes."

"Wonderful," Kate responds, nodding to Castle. "We can sit together and review aerial overviews of the island . . . find out what we are up against, figure out where we think they are being held."

"Thank God for Google," Castle smiles, then grows more serious. "An alternate opinion – and I am thinking out loud here," he continues. "In talking with Sam, recall how I said I would start with the customers who are moving away from our man who runs the prostitution ring being impacted by the new business?"

"Yes," both women respond simultaneously, Kate nodding her head.

"We should still start there," Castle continues. "Just because we think we have the location, the way to ensure we know what we are walking into is to somehow find one of these clients, and follow the crumbs, so to speak. It won't be a murder board, thank God, but we can start storyboarding in the den."

"By the way," Blackard interrupts, "Eddie – from Sam's story – Eddie is real. That's actually his name."

"No way," Castle replies, with an eyebrow raise the San Francisco detective cannot see.

"Eddie Baker," Jennifer continues. "I was surprised that Sam gave his name away. That doesn't bode well for Eddie," she muses out loud. "I suspect I will have to remind Sam of the no-violence promise he made to me."

"Why would Sam have something for Eddie?" Kate wonders aloud.

"Prostitution," Jennifer says simply. He detests it. Passionately. As he has told me – many times – every one of those girls is someone's daughter, and some of them are mothers."

"Strange to see him draw lines like that," Castle says softly.

"Not so strange, Castle," Kate reminds him. "Think of our time back in New York. The Westies. No drugs. That was Finn's rule. His line. No one could cross it."

"And prostitution is Sam's line. He's not fond of drugs, don't get me wrong. And he is a dangerous, dangerous man to make an enemy of," Jennifer adds. "But prostitution is a definite no-no for anyone in his family. Anyway, back to topic – Castle may be right. Finding out who these departing clients are could be helpful."

"Not the easiest thing, I'm sure," Castle continues. "If we are talking about the kind of money I suspect we are, then we aren't dealing with Joe Blow down the street who works the docks and spends money sitting in right field at AT&T Park. We're dealing with big money."

"That means executives, businessmen," Kate tells the group. "Powerful people."

"Councilmen, city officials," Jennifer adds.

"Forget city councilmen," Castle offers. "Think state officials. Think chiefs of police. Think district attorneys, firm partners."

"Which answers the question as to why no one in high places has been talking or offering much in the way of complaints," Jennifer adds. "This isn't something that certain powerful people want to see solved."

"We aren't just talking about a golden goose for whoever is running this racket," Kate agrees. "We are talking about the golden eggs that some powerful people are sampling from. We are getting ready to ruffle some dangerous feathers with this."

"So how do we do this?" Castle asks again. "It's not like we can just walk in and go look at . . . what did you say his name was?"

"Eddie. Eddie Baker," Jennifer replies.

"Right," Castle says with a nod. It's not like we can just walk in and take a look at Eddie's ledger, and see who his clients are."

"And I can guarantee you that these clients aren't exactly driving cars in North Beach and rolling down their windows for pickups," Jennifer chuckles.

"So Eddie has a spot, a place where his top clients go," Kate says. "Standard stuff, saw it in Manhattan."

"And now that spot has been replaced – possibly – with an island getaway," Castle adds.

"By the way, I'm pulling up right now, kiddos," Jennifer says quickly. She can't see the reaction she has caused on Castle's face. Kate, however, doesn't miss it.

"Thinking of Martha?" she asks Castle, placing her hand on his shoulder, knowing the impact Jennifer Blackard's innocent use of the term that Martha has made her staple can have on Castle.

"Yeah," he says, then quickly dismissing the thought. "When we finish this case, and when I know that things are good and stable at the complex, we should take a trip back east. It would be good to see Mother. And Esposito and Ryan," he adds with a smile.

"Yeah, that would be nice," Kate agrees. "And maybe you'd get to see your old Ferrari and beach house," she adds. "You know, I never did get to see your old Hampton house."

"Not even after I left? Kevin never invited you out to visit?" Castle asks, the disappointment showing on his face, as he walks to the door. Jennifer should be parking by now.

"Oh he invited," Kate corrects him. "He and Jenny asked me out countless times. I just . . . well, you had left, and it was your old house and all I could think of was I might never see you again, and we both know how plans imploded a couple of summers ago. I just didn't want to visit – it would not have been the same."

Richard Castle simply nods his head sadly as he opens the door. Kate is quickly by his side, placing her hand in his.

"That was then, Rick," she reminds him. "I didn't get to visit your Hamptons home. But you have opened this home to me, and I live here now."

"This is your home now," he smiles. "We need to do something about that, by the way – you know, to make this more official," he tells her, his eyes almost sparkling with ideas.

"Am I interrupting anything here?" Jennifer asks the couple as she walks up the driveway.

"Nothing that we won't be revisiting," Castle tells her, squeezing Kate's hand and giving her a sideways glance.

"I look forward to that conversation, Mr. Castle," Kate whispers in his ear as she moves forward, taking Jennifer into a quick hug and ushers her into the house.

A block down the road, a dark-skinned passenger inside a black BMW sits, a toothpick dangling out of his mouth, watching the front door to Castle's house close. He glances up and down the street, then leans back into his seat behind darkened windows.


	12. Chapter 12

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 12**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Sunday, February 21, 2012 – 2:00 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Residence in Sausalito, California**_

They sit outside on the terrace where less than half an hour ago, Richard Castle and Kate Beckett stood with Sam Carlos, looking out over the bay waters in the distance. While initially thinking of taking the discussion to the den, Castle decides that the day is too beautiful outside – especially for February in Northern California.

A large bowl of fruit rests in the middle of the stone top table, surrounded by three filled-to-the-top wine glasses. A tall, recently opened bottle of Terra d'Oro moscato – now Kate's favorite – sits next to Castle as he glances over his laptop, regarding the two women seated with him.

Kate's eyes are fixated on the island in the distance, while Jennifer glances casually between the writer and his former muse. She notes that the two are completely different, and yet they seem to fall into place perfectly, a snug but comfortable fit. She wonders if such a thing could possibly exist for her, and for . . .

Her thoughts are interrupted by Castle's constant rapping on the table with his fingers, waiting for the next image to pop up.

"Castle!" Kate says, just a bit forcefully as she places her hand atop his to stop the incessant noise.

"Sorry," he smiles, and for just a moment, both are reliving a couple of years of history as she allows her fingers to mingle with his. Fortunately, the image is now on his laptop, as he turns the device toward the women so that all three have a good view.

"Let's play a game," Castle tells the women, eliciting a groan from Kate and a questioning look from Jennifer. "No really, this will be fun – and it will give us a few answers . . . or at least some possibilities."

"I take it you have done this before?" Blackard leans toward Kate, asking in a small voice.

"Many times," she smiles, replying softly. "Actually, quite a bit of good can come out of –"

"You do both know that I'm right here," Castle objects. Just as quickly, he ignores their responses and digs into his set of theories.

"This is the blueprint view of the island," he tells them, pointing to the laptop screen. "Notice that the coast guard is here," he continues, pointing toward the western part of the island. "I don't think anyone would risk the prying eyes here, so this is out. For me, if I were writing this story, we'd be looking at the east garrison right here," he says as he points to the eastern part of the island where the army used to hold fort.

"The promising thing about the garrison," Jennifer begins as she takes a sip of wine, "Is that it has a number of buildings here . . . and here." She points to the garrison, and reaches over the table for the laptop.

"Do you mind?" she asks.

"Not at all," Castle tells her, pushing the laptop toward the detective. Jennifer quickly punches in new search parameters, and smiles as she clicks on the images tab. Seconds later, a number of white to yellow buildings with orange-terracotta tiles along the rooftops.

"These are the old officer's quarters of the old Camp Reynolds. The Army changed the name to Fort McDowell in the early 1900's," Blackard continues, giving them a bit of old San Francisco history.

"As we have already discussed, the island has a military history dating back to civil war days. Just north of the barracks is the old immigration center, where immigrants were processed as they came into the country. In the late forties and early fifties, this side of the island was also used to processing returning soldiers from the war in the Pacific," she continues.

"These buildings are vacant now?" Kate asks.

"For the most part, yes," Jennifer tells them. "There have been some efforts towards restoration, but there are no businesses or people living there in the old garrison now."

"Silence of the Lambs," Castle muses aloud, glancing at the images, a story formulating in his mind. "Can you see it?"

"What?" Kate asks. "You think there is some cannibalistic serial killer out there?"

"Of course not," Castle tells her with a smirk. "I'm talking about scenery, setting. I am thinking about the story."

He takes the laptop back from Jennifer, pointing at the images of the old buildings on the island.

"I'm trying to put this all together," he tells them. "What's the story? First of all, putting the setting out on the island could open up some kind of role play. Old army barracks? Isolation? I could do things with that," he tells them, his author's mind racing to life.

"If you are going to force people out on a boat, with a ride across the bay – and Kate," he continues, glancing at his partner, "no matter what time of the year it is, that is a cold, cold ride in the middle of the night," he tells her, receiving a knowing nod of the head from Jennifer.

"So if you are forcing people out into open water for a frigid boat ride, to an old, basically abandoned island, you'd better be providing them with a memorable experience," Jennifer adds.

"And that goes beyond just providing some hot young woman," Kate agrees. "They already have that back at the city. They are already are leaving that market . . . benefit . . . to come here," she says, tapping the screen.

"And blondes," Castle continues. "They've only taken blondes. You have to ask why? These barracks haven't been in use since when – the 40's? 50's?"

Jennifer nods, now warming up to Castle's musings.

"So think cells in a basement, where the women are kept – that's what I meant by the Silence of the Lambs reference – while upstairs, they have recreated some 1940's or 1950's set," he says excitedly.

"Makes you wonder if the clients who go there go dressed for the part," Kate wonders aloud.

"Or if they change into costume once there," Jennifer adds.

"And the blondes?" Castle interrupts. "If we are talking about the 1940's or 1950's, think of Jean Harlow, Lana Turner, Gene Tierney, and early Marilyn Monroe. What if they are out there recreating an entire time period, complete with a late night boat ride past Alcatraz to throw people back in time, setting the mood perfectly. And then the women they . . . partake of . . . are dressed in period, in costume, playing their role."

For a moment they are all silent before Jennifer breaks the silence.

"You sound as if you admire them," she says softly.

"I don't admire the people," he corrects, "but I do appreciate the imagery, I do admire the imagination." Noting the questioning look from the detective, he explains.

"I'm sorry, Detective, it's just the writer in me," he rationalizes. "But it helps me get out of the ordinary, out of the mundane, and into the minds of people who think differently, who are not normal. Because believe me, there is nothing normal, nothing ordinary, nothing unimaginative about what is going on here," he reminds them. "Whoever has done this has gone way, way, way out of the box. If we want to catch them, if we have any shot at all, we need to join them out of the box."

"That's if your story is anything close to what is actually happening," Jennifer throws out.

"Even if it isn't," Castle argues, "here is what we know – assuming the island is the destination. "A – the only way there is by boat or helicopter. Boat is more likely. Less visible."

Both women nod their heads, encouraging him to continue.

"B – there aren't any luxury hotels on the island," he says.

"Nothing even close," Jennifer offers. "Mostly camping stuff."

"So," Castle says, chuckling, "C - I can pretty much promise you that no powerful, socially-conscious people are leaving the plush confines of a bed in a luxury San Francisco hotel to suffer through a cold boat ride for a romp in a tent or some dusty cabin. The only way those old building are useful in this setting is –"

"Is if they have been converted to be props in a set, part of an imaginary world," Kate finishes for him. As outrageous as Castle's idea has sounded initially, it is actually sounding more and more plausible by the moment.

"So how do we test this theory?" Kate asks them. "You've already ruled out just storming the island – which by the way, I agree. We need a better plan than to just show up as tourists there," she offers with a loving punch to Castle's arm.

"And showing up at . . . what did you say his name was, Jennifer?" Castle asks.

"Baker. Eddie Baker," she replies.

"Right," he continues. "We know that showing up at Eddie Baker's place and demanding a look at his ledger isn't going to work. But somehow we need to find out who his missing clientele is."

"And indiscriminately asking questions will only put us in the crosshairs before we even realize what has happened," Kate adds.

"So . . . that means we have to go the covert route," Jennifer comments, now standing and getting a better look at the island in the distance. "We have to get inside Eddie's organization, or his office at a minimum. Eddie knows me, so I'm out."

"He has never met me, so –"

"You're a world famous author who has just gotten more press than the President of the United States in the past few months for what you have built out here," Jennifer interrupts. "You're out. He knows of you."

"He doesn't know me," Kate smiles.

"Oh no," Castle immediately interjects, himself now standing as well. "That's out of the question."

Kate Beckett's reply is simply a raised eyebrow, as she assesses her partner. They have been through far too many dangerous situations for him to start playing big brother now.

"I know I have only been out here for a couple of months, Rick," she begins, emphasizing his first name. She doesn't want to start anything here, but she also doesn't want Rick to forget who he is dealing with. Yes, they have begun something wonderful, something different. But she is still Kate Beckett, ex-detective of the NYPD, who has worked a decade of homicides, drugs, rapes, embezzlements. Eddie Baker may be a dangerous character, but he is long down near the bottom of the list of people who frighten Kate Beckett.

"Let's not forget that I do know how to go undercover, and I do know how to take care of myself," she tells him, and her eyes convey to him that this is a non-negotiating point.

"I love my life out here," she continues, "and I love you. But I'm not going to sit on the sidelines out here –"

"Nor do I want you to," he quickly tells her. "Look, I . . . we . . . I . . ."

He rubs his hand through his hair, and barely stifles a small chuckle. Laughing, he glances between the two women – neither of which is giving him any quarter. He's lost this battle before the first shot has been fired.

"Fine, you're right," he finally tells her, gaining a smile from both women, who fist bump one another, which draws a laugh from Castle.

"What's so funny?" Kate asks, although she is sensing where he is going.

"I just realized," Castle continues, chuckling, "I gave up Espo and Ryan for Beckett and Blackard."

"Do I want to know?" Jennifer asks.

"No," comes the reply from both Castle and Kate, together. They share a quick smile, before Castle gets down to the task at hand.

"So," he begins. "How do you propose we get Kate inside Eddie's organization? Or can we just sneak her into his building? I'm assuming you know where he works, where he lives."

"I do," Jennifer replies.

"I suppose Carlos is not an option here," Castle asks.

"Sam's scorched earth methods are not my first choice for this project, no," Jennifer replies with a smirk of her own. No, Sam Carlos is a chip she wants to save for later down the road.

"Anyway, I don't want to waste a favor with Sam over Eddie Baker," she tells them. "I have a feeling we are going to need a bigger favor down the line, once we actually find out who some of these clients are. They won't roll over politely, I promise you that."

"You're probably right about that," Kate agrees, and Castle finds himself nodding in agreement.

"So we are left with inserting Kate, putting her on the inside," he says.

"Nothing so secretive," Jennifer laughs. "Kate is a private investigator, which allows her certain . . . privileges, certain . . . leeway that I am not disposed to."

"I do like how you think," Castle smiles.

"We will need a diversion of some type," Kate begins, now formulating a plan of her own. "I can't just waltz in and take a look around. We need something to keep Baker, or whoever he has in the building, occupied."

At that moment, the patio door opens, as young Alexis Castle sticks her head through the doorway.

"Hey dad, just letting you know I'm home and – oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you and Kate had company."

"Hey pumpkin," Castle smiles, his eyes brightening as always at the sight of the now eighteen year-old woman he still considers to be his 'little girl'.

"Speaking of diversions," Jennifer muses under her breath, a plan of her own now formulating in her head.

"No fucking way," Castle responds, giving a stone glare to the San Francisco detective.

"Dad!" Alexis questions with a slight bit of alarm. It's been years and years since . . . scratch that - she has never heard that word escape her father's lips.

"Sorry, pumpkin," he apologizes quickly to the beautiful young redhead in the doorway, then looks toward the other women when Alexis speaks up again.

"Wait a second," the young girl asks as she glances between the two women on the terrace. "What are you trying to protect me from now, Dad?"


	13. Chapter 13

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 13**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Sunday, February 21, 2012 – 2:00 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Residence in Sausalito, California**_

"So this is about the missing women?" Alexis asks excitedly. "You know, Dad, somehow I knew you and Kate would end up looking into this."

Castle and Kate share a knowing smile. Of course, Alexis follows the news and social media, and so she is already well aware of the disappearances. Besides, after the first couple of women went missing, Castle very quickly morphed from 'the cool dad who gives her lots of leeway' back into 'the very concerned and over-protective dad', making his daughter swear she would be diligent while away from the house. A promise he once again reminds her of.

Alexis - wistfully fingering a few strands of her bright red hair - can only offer him a sad smile.

"Dad, I kind of think that I'm okay on that front, Dad," she tells him. "Thank God for Gram's and Mom's red hair," she adds, knowing the proclivity towards blondes on the part of the perpetrators.

"So what's the plan?" the young redhead asks, still excited and ignoring her father's obvious concern.

"Nothing that concerns you, young lady," Castle warns, trying his hardest for his serious and stern look, and failing badly.

"Hold on Castle," Kate tells him. "We don't have to get Alexis involved per se, but . . . well, you are the one who always says that it is best to think out of the box. Well, she," Kate continues, pointing at Alexis, "she is definitely out of the box. Maybe she will pick up something or offer something useful. Wouldn't be the first time."

Alexis offers a grateful look at Kate, who simply smiles quickly then turns her attention back to Castle. She knows she is on shaky ground here when it comes to him involving his daughter in something so dangerous – even though the extent of Alexis' involvement will simply be as a listener and possible contributor, but not an active participant.

"What can it hurt, Castle?" Jennifer asks, glancing between Kate and Castle and his daughter.

" _Easy for you to think,"_ Castle muses to himself. _"She's not your daughter."_ In the end, however, he has to admit that a different perspective can't hurt. And – outside of her hair color – Alexis is the demographic these people seem to be targeting. She might just bring a different perspective they are not considering. And they _are_ in the safety of his home. He nods his head, offering one of his patented 'you had better not screw this up' stares to his daughter.

As it turns out, Detective Jennifer Blackard knows the address of a suspected brothel owned by one Edward Baker. She begins putting the background information in place for the group to consider as they plan their next move.

"The police . . . well, we've more or less given up trying to bust him at this location," she tells the team, glancing from Castle to Kate. "Eddie is actually pretty smart when it comes to this business. Very much an out-of-the-box thinker," she says with a nod to Kate and her previous comments to Castle.

"He has bought an apartment building. The entire building. It has four floors, with four rooms on each floor. But the rooms are actually regular living apartments. So, we are talking about a building with a total of sixteen small one-bedroom apartments, each with a small kitchen, eating area and living room. Every time there has been a raid, someone launches a quick silent alarm that warns the patrons and the girls. They – the patrons and girls – they all have been well-trained with their responses. When the doors are busted down – or knocked on – there is nothing there but perceived 'tenants' of the building, and the 'friends' that they are hosting."

Castle nods, a knowing smile beginning to paint his face. He has to admire the stones . . . and the imagination of this operation.

"So when the police – you – arrive – you aren't breaking into a brothel with small rooms with a bed and bathroom, the way we see in the movies or on television," he notes out loud.

"Nope," Jennifer replies. "When we have entered a room, officially we are entering someone's home, an apartment being rented by the girl inside. Whether she happens to be engaging in some sexual activity at the time is her personal business," she continues. "Eddie has paperwork in each apartment that shows that each of the girls are renters of that specific apartment. Tenants, if you will. And it turns out that each apartment has two women signed on as tenants –"

"Roommates," Castle muses aloud. "Very, very smart."

"Yeah, like a fox," Jennifer responds. "With sixteen rooms, this allows the building up to thirty-two women to be viewed as tenants. So he can have two girls that can share each apartment, coming and going with their clients, entertaining their men – or women – in their 'home' – and there is nothing we can do about it. What these women do in their – quote – own apartment – unquote – is outside the reach of the law, since there is no evidence of money exchanging hands."

"But money is exchanging hands," Alexis argues, offering her first thoughts.

"Not officially, Alexis," Kate explains. "Any cash found, any money found in the apartment – no matter how much – well, because it is in the apartment –"

"Because they are renting the apartment, it's their home," Alexis finishes for her, now understanding the simple brilliance of the plot. "And any money found in the apartment can be easily explained by someone who prefers to keep their cash on hand."

"Exactly," Jennifer concurs. "It's no different than police coming here to your father's home and finding a large sum of cash here on hand," she adds, shaking her head in frustration as she recalls more than a few raids that have ended in disappointment.

"However, the building does have video surveillance," she continues. "That much we do know. And that's what we want to get our hands on right now. If we can see the surveillance archives, then we can see who has been coming and going."

"Hey, is that going to be admissible in court?" Alexis asks.

"It doesn't matter," Kate replies quickly. "Our goal isn't to use what we find in a court of law. Our goal is to find out who these clients are, see which of these clients have dropped off the radar."

Castle smiles, noting how easily Beckett has been able to change her perspective from that of a cop gathering admissible evidence to that of a private investigator whose sole goal is to get information. What a difference a few months – and a change of scenery – makes.

He continues smiling, knowing full well that it is more than a change of scenery that has caused this change in the former NYPD detective. It is a change in mindset as well, driven largely by the change in their relationship. A change he is committed to making far more official than it stands today. He pushes those thoughts away, getting back to the task at hand. There will be time for that soon enough.

"If we can find one or two of these clients – and I admit it's a long shot – then we can tail them," Castle adds. "We can follow them, find out where they are going. If we are right, then it is somewhere on Angel Island. And if that is where they are going, we can discover exactly where on the island. If we are wrong – well, at least we know where they are going for their new . . . adventures. And we know where the girls are being held."

"And then you bust their call-girl ring?" Alexis muses aloud, then questioning again. "Will it stand?"

"Again, Alexis, we aren't looking to bring this to a court of law," Kate counters. "The end game is for us to find the missing women – period – and bring them home safely. Proving whether or not the clients knew or recognized the women as kidnap victims – that will be damn near impossible to prove."

"Unless," Castle notes, "one of these clients really does turn out to be someone who ought to know about the missing women – someone who _had_ to know. A councilman – or councilwoman – a district attorney, a chief of police, someone in the media."

"So," Kate continues. "Back to the plan. We need to get me into the building so I can look around."

"And you can't pose as a call girl," Jennifer quickly offers, "because Eddie's girls are all known in the house. They each are assigned a specific room. So we have to assume the security guard downstairs knows each of them very well."

"And will probably do anything to get on their good side," Castle says softly, now taking notes again.

"So the girls are well-known to the guard – and the guard doesn't know me – so you are right, sneaking me into the building as a call girl is out," Kate agrees. "So I have to be the damsel in distress. A flat tire maybe."

"A broken down car," Jennifer adds, now taking notes herself as well. "And a lost cell phone," she says excitedly as she jots it down on paper. "That is reason enough to get you on the inside and make a phone call at the security desk, or the house phone."

"And that gives me a chance to take a look around, scope out the location of the cameras, maybe get lucky with a client arriving at the same time," Kate agrees. "A quick jab with a needle, or a sip of a drink, a bite of a cookie and the guard is out. Gives me time to look around. Possibly get access to the surveillance archive."

"But anything you do at that point, though, will be captured on surveillance," Castle counters with a frown on his face. They aren't thinking this through. That concerns him.

"That means exposing you – and that puts you squarely inside Eddie Baker's crosshairs," he reminds them.

"Absolutely," Jennifer interrupts. "Believe me, Sam Carlo's opinion of him notwithstanding, we cannot afford to underestimate what Eddie will be willing to do to protect his very lucrative business."

For a moment the group is quiet, as each contemplates the current impasse. Once again, Castle's fingers drumming along the tabletop draw everyone's attention to the writer.

"There is an easier way, you know," Alexis suddenly smiles, which immediately brings another frown to Castle's face. He knows his daughter far too well, and realizes the young girl has been searching for a way into this, in a much more active, participatory role.

All eyes veer towards the young red-head, who can barely stifle a chuckle.

"Get into the system – get on their network in the building - and ping the server," the young redhead smiles. "Grab the IP address of the surveillance server. Once we have that . . . well, let's just say that there are some very, very smart techie friends of mine back at Branson who can get pretty much any information you want, if they know the IP address of their destination."

"What about passwords? What about their security?" asks Jennifer. "Surely they have a secured network."

This time Alexis cannot hold back her laughter. She notes to herself that Jennifer Blackard is like Kate, like her dad. They don't understand how woefully inadequate normal IT security is when matched against the perceived tech geeks her generation – especially when she or her friends are properly motivated.

"Trust me," she tells them, "once I get the IP address of the server, anything you want to see, you will be able to see."

"Whoa," Castle exclaims. Yeah, this was the dropped shoe he has been waiting for.

"What do you mean once _you_ get the IP address," he asks, his glare calm but serious. " _You_ aren't getting anywhere near this."

"Do _you_ know how to do it, Dad?" she asks. "Do either of them?" It's a gamble on her part, sure. But she is confident right now, because if either Kate or Jennifer could do this, they would have thought of it. They aren't stupid. Castle glances from woman to woman, stumbling for his next words.

"And exactly how would you do this?" Jennifer asks before Castle can speak again.

"Get me in the building – get me next to the building – and I will do the rest," a confident younger version of Castle exclaims, excitedly.


	14. Chapter 14

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 14**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Sunday Night, February 21, 2012 – 7:44 p.m. – At Eddie Baker's Brothel Building in North Beach**_

"Are you sure about this, pumpkin?" a worried Richard Castle – clearly in dad mode – asks his daughter. He is two blocks away from Eddie Baker's building, and while he is thankful for the earpiece and wire provided by Detective Jennifer Blackard, two blocks is still two blocks. He doesn't like being this far away, but the SFPD detective warned him that too many people loitering around outside Eddie's version of the best little whorehouse in San Francisco will be sniffed out right away. So he has to keep his distance.

Detective Blackard sits next to him in the unmarked rental. She, too, has to keep her distance. There is no way she can show her face near the building. There is a history between the detective and Eddie Baker – not a good one either – and her face is well known to Baker's people. The rental car is in use to make sure that no one can trace a car back to them, arranged through department connections and hiding bushes.

Two blocks down the street, a disguised Kate Beckett plays her damsel in distress role perfectly. She has 'stopped' the car some twenty feet before Eddie's building. They aren't dealing with idiots. Breaking down right in front of the building is too obvious for people who are constantly on the lookout for a police presence. She wears a blonde wig and deep blue contact lenses to complete the disguise. Alexis wears a dark brown wig with blonde roots showing – the hair short above the shoulders – and brown contact lenses. Two things stuck out with Castle forty minutes ago as they set out the North Beach building from Sausalito.

First – the disguise works perfectly as Alexis could pass for the teenage daughter of Kate, just as planned. Check one.

Second – well, he could hardly contain himself – or keep quiet - at the notion of Beckett showing up for bed one night as a blue-eyed blonde. It was a declaration that won him the patented Beckett glare, and he is positive that a certain piece of jewelry he is considering just got larger for his . . . indiscretion.

Alexis' voice brings him back to the present.

"I'm fine, Dad," Alexis answers. "Let me work."

Kate Beckett has played her part, acting somewhat agitated and frantic, going inside and asking to use the phone. She is calling a burner phone that is unlisted, so the phone records of the building won't be able to track them down later. The burner phone is answered by Mike Monroe, thus completing the ruse of a wife calling her husband – just in case calls are monitored or recorded from the building, which Jennifer places as a likely bet. Mike has been coached on how this conversation is supposed to go. He should act a bit put off, wondering what trouble his wife has gotten into now. This allows the call to linger – which gives Alexis and her friends the time they need.

At least that's the plan.

Kate had walked into the building, asking for help, already knowing that the security guard would not leave his post behind the desk. Not without backup. So she was able to draw her pleas for help out for a minute and a half, knowing she would get nowhere with the man before finally asking to use a phone.

Alexis waited the obligatory two minutes as planned, before barging into the lobby as the impatient teenager ready to get going.

"C'mon Mom, tell Dad to hurry. I'm going to be late," she had lamented to Kate as Kate first got on the phone. The ruse works, as Dave at the security desk merely smirks at the misfortune of the poor woman. Her car has broken down and her daughter is none too pleased about the prospect of missing some silly teenage event, and it doesn't sound – from here – like the husband is too sympathetic either.

"I have to pee," Alexis had declared loudly with a slight stomp of the foot. That, too, got Dave's attention. The last thing he needs is any further problems, and right now he wants this woman's husband to show up and get both of them the hell out of here.

"The bathroom is down the hall on your right," he had told Alexis. "And don't mess up in there," he tells her as a parting shot, to which the younger Castle - playing her role to the hilt - had merely offered a turned up nose and a fingerless upward fist motion as she walked away.

Now she sits in the restroom, a single room with one toilet and a sink – unisex – and her laptop on her lap.

"I'm fine, Dad," she repeats with a whisper. "Now let me work. We don't have much time."

"I know, I know – that's what worries me," he tells her.

"Dad, I'm like the wind. I'm just a fly in their garden. I'll be out before they know it."

"Flies get swatted," her dad grumbles, causing a snicker from the detective seated next to him.

"They only get swatted for buzzing and annoying people," Alexis counters. "Which you are doing right now."

Jennifer Blackard cannot hold back the chuckle that escapes, and can only offer a meek expression when she receives a stone gaze from the very nervous father sitting next to her.

"Relax, Castle, she is doing just fine," Jennifer tells him. "She's a girl. She's supposed to take a little time in the restroom. That's what we do."

"Do tell," he grumbles under his breath.

"She has a few minutes before anything looks funny," Jennifer continues. "Let her work, as we discussed."

Castle mumbles something undecipherable under his breath, wishing for the umpteenth time that they could just sit down with Eddie Baker, explain what is happening and have him just tell them who his missing clients are. Of course, that's fantasy thinking as Baker will never give up the names of his clientele. That's the kind of mistake from which a man in his business can never recover.

Back inside the ground floor restroom, Alexis initially powers up the small laptop hidden in her shoulder backpack. A quick glance at available networks brings a wide smile to the young woman's face. She had suspected that the network here would be unsecured. None of the girls are using the network in the building, and browsing the web is the last thing on the minds of the patrons. The signal is weak – intentionally she figures.

"All yours, Randy," she tells her Branson schoolmate, who is in her other ear via her cell phone. Randy is remotely connected to Alexis, and now that she is on the network, he takes over her small laptop.

"Give me two minutes, Red," the fellow senior tells her as he quickly begins issuing commands that flash on Alexis' laptop. First, he pings the network to discover other devices on the network, taking screenshots as he goes along.

"There's quite a few devices here," he tells her as he works, causing her to pause. She passes the information on to her father, in her other ear.

"Randy says there are quite a few devices."

"Really?" Castle says with surprise, before Jennifer interrupts.

"IP video cameras," she says with surprise herself. "Ask how many."

"How many devices are you talking about, pumpkin," Castle asks.

Alexis is able to see everything Randy does as he controls her laptop, and begins counting.

"At least ten, twelve, maybe more."

"He's got the rooms wired!" Castle exclaims. "That's not something his clients would appreciate."

"Leverage," Jennifer whispers as Castle nods excitedly. All of the sudden, this little endeavor may pay off after all.

"Poor signal, though," Alexis tells them. "I barely have two bars."

"They are probably hard-wired then," Jennifer muses aloud. "Flies in the garden, indeed."

Randy continues working, glancing at his watch. He knows that Alexis had precious few seconds left before she draws suspicion. The three adults insisted on secrecy, which Alexis quickly shot down.

" _If Randy is going to do this, he's going to want to know what is going on. He deserves to know what he is getting himself into, and I'm not going to lie to him,"_ she had told the adults earlier.

Randy frowns as he pings a few names that he sees before he finally finds the surveillance server.

"Got it," he exults with a fist pump to the air. "Give me twenty more seconds," he tells her as he drops a sniffer onto the network that will download itself on the desktop computer of Dave, the security guard. Within the next hour, Randy will have all of the keystrokes, passwords, and sites visited from Dave's computer. Satisfied that he now can access the network at any time, and can capture the passwords to the servers, he breaks the connection with Alexis.

"Time to fly, Red," he tells the younger Castle. "I'm off."

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," she tells the young man with a hint of a French accent. "I will see you tomorrow in school."

"With stories to tell?"

"As much as I can," she promises as she cuts the line. "Really appreciate this Randy. I owe you."

"Yeah, promises, promises," he chuckles as he hangs up as well.

Closing her laptop and gathering her belongings, Alexis checks herself in the mirror. Habit if nothing else, and is about to open the door when it hits her. She dashes back to the toilet, pressing the flush bar, and then turns on the sink.

" _Have to make this look good, in case he's standing out there monitoring me,"_ she thinks to herself, once again proud of herself that all of this has occurred within whispered voices. Finally she opens the door, her backpack slung over her shoulder, and seeing no one there, immediately falls back into her role. Her shoulders begin to slump and she utters a 'dammit' as she walks back.

Castle, hearing it all from down the street, can only smile.

"Too much time with my mother," he explains as he glances at Jennifer. Her blank expression reminds him that she has no idea who Martha Rodgers is, or the talents the woman has evidently passed on to the younger Castle.

"Mom, let's go!" she all but cries out, waving a hand in disgust. "Dammit, let me talk to Dad."

Kate chooses that moment to end her call with Mike, who is still in the back seat of the rental with Castle and Jennifer. He will wait until Kate and Alexis go back to their car and then give them ten, fifteen minutes tops before he shows up, just to keep appearances up, as planned.

"My husband will be here in ten minutes," Kate tells Dave. "I really appreciate this." She then turns to Alexis, giving the younger woman her final planned line.

"Your father will be here in ten minutes, young lady!"

" _Step_ -father, you mean," Alexis says pointedly, completing the ruse. If Dave looks out and sees Mike Monroe helping, he's going to wonder how the dark, black man produced a lily-white, pale-skinned daughter. Hearing that whoever shows up is the girl's stepfather will ensure such doubts don't creep into Dave's head.

"He loves you like his own and you know that," Kate plays, putting is bit of emotion into her voice.

"I know, Mom," Alexis replies. "Just get me the hell out of here. I'm going to be late."

With that, the two women exit the building, Kate offering a wave and a thank you to Dave while Alexis ignores his very existence. They go to their car, and sit, waiting for the designated time to expire. Ten minutes later, Castle and Jennifer exit the car and walk around the block. They will take the bus to Van Ness Avenue and hop off there, where they will be picked up by Mike.

Mike hops into the front seat as Castle and the detective exit the car, and brings the engine to life, driving the two blocks and making a right turn to pull up behind Kate's broken down car. He exits, exchanges pleasantries with his 'wife and daughter', and pops open the hood to the disabled car. He fumbles around for a few minutes, to make it look good in case they are being watched. After another minute, he tells Kate to start the car. The car purrs to life as he slams the hood shut and offers his 'wife' a quick peck on the cheek and then walks back to his car as Kate and Alexis drive off. Seconds later, he follows in the rental.

Back inside the building, their actions have indeed been monitored.

"Yes sir, they just drove away," Dave speaks into the phone. "No, I don't think it was anything to be concerned about. Broken down car, her husband showed up, fixed it and they drove off . . . No, I'm positive no one went upstairs. I had the restroom in sight the entire time. The younger girl went in, was there a few minutes, and came out. Her mother was in front of me the whole time on the phone with her husband . . . yes sir . . . yes sir, I will," he finishes as he hangs the call up and turns his attention back to Sunday Night Football streaming on his desktop computer.

Three minutes down the road, Mike waits for Castle and Jennifer as they exit the bus one street past Van Ness.

"All clear, boss?" he asks Castle as Castle slides into the back seat, while Jennifer joins Mike in the front seat.

"No problems at all," Castle replies. "My ladies are okay, right?"

"Both fine and headed back to the bridge," Mike replies with a smile. "Alexis seems happy, so I'm guessing she got everything you need."

"Good," Castle says with a smile, exhaling and finally relaxing back into the back seat. "Let's go home. We're going to need my best batch of coffee because we have lots of tape to watch."

Mike puts the car in motion, pulling away from the curb. Unknown to the trio, a black BMW trails a full football field's length behind them.


	15. Chapter 15

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 15**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Still Sunday Night, February 19, 2012 – 8:57 p.m. – At Eddie Baker's Home in the Marina area**_

Eddie Baker is not very happy. He stares out of the large bay window looking out at the cars zipping by, the waters of the bay just beyond the busy street. Life has been good for Eddie Baker. His business has been thriving, the police have learned to leave him alone. In Eddie's way of thinking, he is not hurting anyone. He's providing a service. He isn't killing anyone, he isn't stealing from anyone. People are choosing to pay for the services he provides. And he isn't forcing any of his girls into this trade. They, too, do so of their own free will. Everything is perfect, and no one is getting hurt. That's his mindset.

Until today, that is.

Being accosted early in the morning, rustled out of bed and taken – by force - to a dark warehouse in Chinatown is no way to start anyone's day. Then realizing all of that has been orchestrated by one whom Eddie considers the most dangerous man in Northern California? No, that wasn't a good morning. The news that Sam Carlos shared with him was even worse. What he thought was his thriving business truly has been losing some of his key clientele. Oh, they still come, they still visit his web occasionally. But for a few key people, their visits have become less frequent. Eddie just figured that life at the office or at the house was forcing them to curtail their little activities. It happens, and the business is cyclical. They always come back.

However, after his forced conversation with Carlos, Eddie has checked the ledger, and damn the arrogant bastard, he was right. Adams, the city councilman has – in fact – lessened his visits over the past three months. Adams used to be a regular, stopping by once a week. In the past three months, however, he has been by three times. That's a drop of approximately twelve visits a quarter to literally three. How in the hell did he miss that?

And Keller. That bastard had been a thorn in his side for almost a year, trying to pin him down before they had reached an accord of sorts, with Baker providing the man freebies – no charge, for crying out loud – twice a month just to stay off his case. And for the past eight months, it has worked. Until now. In the past three months, what should have been six visits to Eddie's lair had been reduced to two.

"I should have seen this!" Baker lashes out at himself, slamming his fist on the table. It's never good to have one who is considered a potential threat to be the one who points out little holes, little gaps in your business. Regardless, it is what it is. The real question right now is what to do about it.

Good for Dave for alerting him to the visitors they had earlier this evening. Even though it has turned out to be nothing, he is calmed somewhat just to know that his people are still vigilant, still always on the lookout.

Regarding his key clients who have fallen off – and given what Carlos shared with him – it is far more likely that they have found business elsewhere, rather than simply stopped altogether. The latter is highly unlikely. But this just doesn't make sense.

"These men know that women have been kidnapped," he thinks to himself. "Hell, Adams has his nose so far up Clooney's ass, there is no way he doesn't know. And Keller. He has far too much to lose for him to risk something like this, in his position."

Baker shakes his head, still trying to make sense of all of this. Of course, the easiest and most direct path is to confront the two men. That, however, would force him to use the leverage he has against them. Leverage they are completely unaware of at this time. None of his clients are aware of the video surveillance in the rooms. Baker installed the surveillance for both voyeuristic as well as practical reasons. The former has given him hours of entertainment. The latter – well, the latter is something he has never had to call into use. He hesitates even now, knowing full well that is a door that – once opened – cannot be closed. It's always best to avoid making enemies, especially powerful ones.

He downs the remaining gulp of scotch, gritting his teeth with a smile and a contented exhale of breath. The alcohol seems to crystalize his thinking, as he realizes what really is bothering him about this whole scenario. Warped as his logic may be, he feels that he takes care of the women who work for him. He has never hit any of them, and while he is admittedly draconian with them financially, he does make sure they are taken care of. When he started this business, he wanted to do this differently from how he perceived this market to operate. Any woman can leave the business if and when she chooses. That very few have tells him he is doing this the right way. Again, the 'right way' is subjective in his mind.

Giving them women their own place helped him – yes – gave him a solid cover. But it helped them as well. Each of the women had taken to decorating 'their' place. They came to consider their apartments their home-away-from-home.

Baker doesn't like kidnappings. He doesn't like the idea of forced servitude. If nothing else, the man can relate – historically – with those forced into slavery of any kind. And now, whoever has taken these women is impacting his business. That – he has decided – is unacceptable.

The ringing phone interrupts his thoughts, and he answers on the second ring after seeing the caller ID. After hanging up with Dave, he had sent a small crew to the building, just to sweep for bugs. Dave's a good man, but one can never take too many chances.

"Yeah Mike," Eddie answers.

"All clean," Mike replies curtly. The man is all business, all the time. Eddie likes that. "Whoever they were, they didn't leave anything behind."

"And I've checked surveillance. They didn't go to any of the rooms," Baker nods. "Thanks Mike."

"No problem," Mike tells him as he clicks off.

Okay, so no bugs found, and they weren't wandering around the building, they didn't enter any out-of-bounds areas. The two women appear to be what they claimed. He pushes the thoughts out of his mind, returning to his problem at hand: his missing clients, how to get them back, and how to expose whoever is abducting women and hurting his business.

 _ **Monday Morning, February 20, 2012 – 3:17 a.m. – At the Castle's Complex in Sausalito**_

Richard Castle sits with his third cup of coffee this morning, staring bleary-eyed at the large monitor atop his desk. His office here at the complex seems to shrink in size with each passing moment, as Castle is now feeling the effects of his first all-nighter in . . . well, forever.

He is still roughly three and a half hours from sunrise, and although very tired, Castle has to admit that the quiet, the peace and tranquility here at the complex at night and into the wee hours of the morning have been wonderful. He glances to the small sofa to the side and smiles at the sleeping form of Kate Beckett. Kate lasted until about an hour ago, while her old friend, Jennifer Blackard went to sleep on the sofa in the spare office next door maybe twenty minutes prior to that.

They had started returned to his Sausalito home after last night's successful endeavor, arriving around 9pm after fighting unexpected traffic leading up to the Golden Gate Bridge due to construction. Just before midnight, Alexis came prancing in proudly to the living room with the information they needed. Her friend, Randy, had provided her with three log-ins to the network – each log-in that would use the security guard's IP address as a mask. This would allow each of them – Castle, Beckett and Blackard – to each access the network separately. And therein is the challenge that they have discovered.

It only took fifteen minutes of scanning through the videos for Castle to realize that the only people coming through the front door were the women – the tenants – themselves. Evidently the clients enter through another door.

"Probably from the garage," Castle had postulated just after midnight. "Makes sense. Not the brightest move to have these people wander in through the front door, with all of the eyes that could see them."

"Knowing Eddie, he also tells his clients that the front lobby has cameras and they should stay away from them," Jennifer adds. "Gives them just a bit of added false security."

"And false trust," Kate nods, warming to the idea. "They have no idea how horribly misplaced that trust actually is," Kate adds as she watches a video of an older man entering room 403, the first room assigned to her to monitor. Castle's idea is that the bigger fish would opt for higher floors. Not as secure in the need for a quick escape, but the higher floor gives an excitement of sorts.

She notes his face, performing a screen shot. The process is simple for each of them. Get a good facial capture of each client who enters a room, and share that will Jennifer, to see if the woman knows who they are. Those who are unidentified will be put through facial recognition. The problem is that there are three of them and sixteen rooms.

This could take as close to forever as Castle would like to consider.

As it turns out, it is as painstakingly long a process as they had feared. They have decided to start back at August of 2011. This gives them six and a half months of data to sift through, at least initially. Worse, these women are busy, busy bees, as Castle calls them. Each room seems to entertain ten to twelve clients per day. That's a lot of . . . entertainment to browse.

Now three hours into his viewings, Castle has perused four months of data and has assigned each face a number. In the past ten minutes, he has noticed a pattern in room 401.

Face 8 – white male, mid-forties, short black hair, otherwise identity currently unknown – is a fairly regular visitor. In four months of data, Castle reviews the marks next to Face 8. Twelve marks, prior to this one. He checks, and double checks his numbers. Yeah, 8 had been in room 401 once a week for three months solid. This current month – November – Castle notes he is in the final week of the month and this is the first time this month that 8 has shown up.

Castle closes his eyes – both to relax for a moment as well as for clarity of memory, mentally pulling up research from one of his older Derek Storm books. Many times, clients tend to find one call girl who they decide they enjoy. They end up staying with said woman time and time again. That's what he has seen with Face 8, and the blonde in 401. The blonde shares the room with a brunette, and Face 8 has never been seen with the brunette. He makes a note to share the face with both Kate and Blackard. First, he wants to see if Blackard recognizes the face. Second, he wants to see if the face shows up in any of their rooms.

He is startled to catch movement outside the window, on his left periphery. He squints to make sure he is seeing things right.

Veronica Mitchell, a resident here at the Castles for the past three weeks, is walking the grounds. There's nothing wrong with his, per se. The residents are free to come and go as they please. But Veronica, as Castle has learned, is a night owl. The woman is a pharmaceutical sales rep who has taken a leave of absence from her company. It turns out she is a highly successful rep, and her company has bent over backwards to accommodate her requests in the hopes that she will return shortly.

He minimizes the window on the computer, and stands, stretching his arms and legs. He quickly makes his way out of the door and jogs down the hallway into the foyer area where he makes a quick left turn and continues jogging to the back door leading to the residences, and the walkway to the woods that Mitchell currently traverses.

He picks up his pace to catch the woman who moves away at a casual rate.

"Veronica," he calls out in a loud whisper, not wanting to wake any of the sleeping families. "Veronica!"

She stops in her tracks, startled that anyone would be out here at this hour. Glancing back, her eyes grow large as she realizes who is chasing after her.

"Mr. Castle?" she exclaims. "What are you doing out here?"

"Uh, I kind of own the place," he laughs, and she joins him. He has a way of making each of the residents here feel at ease.

"I was wondering the same thing about you," he mentions. "I understand you are quite the night owl."

"Yeah, well . . . this little sabbatical I am taking is affording me time to do . . . different things," she smiles wistfully. "I find the night to be comforting somehow. It's so quiet out here, so beautiful. It's just so . . . safe."

"Glad you feel that way," he nods, as he falls in beside her, as they walk along the pathway. "That was absolutely the intent," he continues.

"Mission accomplished," she tells him. "I do my best thinking out here during these late night hours. Very reflective."

Castle doesn't say anything. He's learned – from Dr. Samantha Peraza and his own limited experiences with the women here – that listening is the best tool he can possibly have. These women – and their children – will tell them everything they need to know if they will just shut up and listen.

They walk for another fifty yards before Veronica continues.

"Thank you," she tells him.

"You're welcome," he replies, then adds with a smirk. "What am welcomed for?"

Veronica chuckles as she thrust her hands deeper into her pockets. It's cold out here this morning, but her jacket does its job well.

"Well first of all, thanks for not talking," she laughs. When I saw you coming my first thought was "Oh great, there goes my quiet time," she smiles. For his part, Castle simply smiles, allowing her to talk.

"But second – okay, first actually – thanks for this place. Thanks for thinking of us. Of women you don't know. Thanks for building this place. I honestly . . ."

Her voice cracks for a second, but her regains her composure so quickly, Castle has to admire her fortitude.

" _Strong, strong woman,"_ he thinks to himself. Unfortunately, Veronica's husband had a difficult time dealing with living with such a successful woman, a woman who brought home almost four times as much financially as he did.

" _Idiot,"_ he continues to think to himself. _"He sees a blessing as a curse,"_ he muses to himself as she continues.

"I honestly don't know what I would have done without this place," she finally gets out.

"You would have done fine, Veronica," he tells her softly. "If this were not an option, you would have found a Plan B just fine. But I'm glad we are here for you."

He slows and begins to walk away from the young woman, allowing her some time alone – which is why she is out here in the middle of the night in the first place.

"Don't go," she asks, reaching out to him. "Please."

He doesn't say a word, but continues walking with her. For the next fifteen or so minutes they walk, a full circle around the residential area of the complex. They walk in silence. Castle is not sure what Veronica is thinking, and decides it doesn't matter. She needs the company, but quiet company. He is happy to provide that. It gives him time to think, himself.

They reach her building and she stops on the walkway.

"Thank you Mr. Castle. For walking with me. For letting me talk, letting me think. For not searching for cute things to say."

He simply smiles as he leans in and gives her a quick hug. He releases her and steps back, beginning to walk away again.

"Anytime, Veronica." He turns to leave when she stops him again.

"What's got you so deep in thought, Mr. Castle?" she asks. She sees his confusion, and presses on, taking a couple of steps toward him.

"You just spent fifteen or twenty minutes walking with me, not saying a word. Most people I know – men or women – can't do that very easily. Not unless they are just as preoccupied as I am right now."

"Very observant," he muses aloud. He considers for a moment exactly how much he should say to this woman – if anything at all. Something – perhaps that sixth sense that he has always wished that he had – urges him to open up a bit.

"You've heard about the recent kidnappings of women in the city?" he asks.

"Who hasn't," she says, the disgust in her voice showing.

"One of our more recent residents here . . . her daughter was kidnapped."

"Oh my God!" she exclaims. "That's . . . that's horrible. Oh God, what . . . how –"

"I really can't go into it any more than that, but we have been looking into it – that and the other kidnappings. That's what I was doing in my office when I saw you walking by earlier," he tells her, nodding his head back toward the administrative building he came out of roughly twenty five minutes earlier.

"What do you mean?" she asks. "I mean, what you are doing here is wonderful and all, but solving crimes, kidnappings . . . I don't mean to –"

"We have some talented people on staff here, Veronica," he smiles. "Ex-cops, ex-military, even an ex-writer," he finishes which brings a small laugh to her the woman next to him.

"And we all have our connections, as you might say," he tells her. "Trust me, we have solved worse. I'm just lost on this one right now. We find a clue, we come up with theories . . ."

He stops for a second, rubbing his chin.

"It's early though. We haven't been at it for more than a few days," he says confidently. "We will figure it out."

"Well," she says as she steps back, beginning to walk to her door, "in my line of business, past success often leads to new victories. You will figure it –"

"What did you say?" he says quickly, stopping her in her tracks.

"What did you say?" he repeats.

"I don't know, what do you –"

"Just now, a second ago," he interrupts. "Say that again!"

"I . . . uh . . . I said that past success leads to new victories . . . ?"

"What do you mean by that?" he asks, a tingling in the back of his head telling him this is important. It's that writer's tingle that he gets when stumbling across something critical that he would use in a book.

"Well," she begins, "in sales, you win a deal, and you look at a number of things. What was their criteria? What gaps did they have? How did you solve that gap? Who helped you? Can they help you again? Can they be a reference for you? Will you –"

"Whoa!" he stops her, shaking his head from side to side, trying to get his thoughts around this. "You were saying something about references – but about people helping you again . . ."

"Sure," she continues, not sure of where he is going with this. "You win one deal, and you learn from it. You solve one problem, often you will win again by solving that same problem for someone else. You learn which partners you can trust. You learn which partners you cannot trust – which partners may lean more to your competitors. You realize that every sales is a building block, and that often people you have met in one sale come back to impact another sale, either as a partner or a competitor, and you learn to deal with them as –"

"Veronica!" he exclaims, cutting her off. He rushes toward her, taking two quick steps and grabs the woman by the shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Veronica! My God, my God," he tells her as he releases her and turns and jogs away. His jog turns into a sprint along the walkway back to the administrative building, leaving a clueless Veronica Mitchell in his wake.

" _Damn, could it be this simple?"_ he asks himself as he sprints to the building.

"You're welcome!" she whispers loudly at his retreating form, then smiles as she opens her door and enters her home.

 **A/N:** I hope everyone had a safe and cavity-free Halloween this evening. Also please note that I discovered that I was two days off on my 2012 calendar. I have fixed that for this chapter. The days of the week remain the same, this story began on a Thursday and we are now in the wee hours of that following Monday morning.


	16. Chapter 16

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 16**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Monday Morning, February 20, 2012 – 3:47 a.m. – At the Castle's Complex in Sausalito**_

Richard Castle runs into his office, throwing the door open wide. He sees the sleeping form of Kate Beckett on the sofa, and with a familiar mischievous grin that often both heartens and – at the same time - drives Kate crazy, slams the door shut, throwing his hands high in the air, his head held back looking toward the ceiling.

"Eureeeeeka!" he screams, and then breaks into laughter as Kate jumps quickly off the sofa, eyes wide and tracking for trouble, proving that her old habits – and instincts – are still as sharp as ever.

"Geesh Castle! What the hell!" she exclaims with frustration. This was a nice dream, as well as some much-needed sleep he just interrupted. She glances at her watch, and noting the time, glances back at her partner again.

"What the hell!" she repeats, watching his laughter grow.

"Oh Beckett, Beckett, Beckett," he continues, laughing. "This is just beautiful. My God, I would never have thought of this, never have written this . . ."

He drifts off in thought, for a small moment wondering if he is slipping. He would never have thought of this. Until his well-beyond-midnight walk with Veronica Mitchell, this wasn't even a remote thought he was entertaining. Now? It seems crystal clear.

Detective Jennifer Blackard picks this time to burst into the room, her weapon drawn. She can be forgiven, as it isn't often – if ever – that a person actually hears another human being shriek the word 'Eureka!', complete with slammed doors and loud laughter in the wee hours of the morning.

She quickly takes in the scene before her and shoulders her weapon, but not before giving a harsh glare to the laughing writer in the middle of the room.

"Castle – what the hell!" she yells, twinning her old friend who stands next to Castle.

"Jennifer," Castle begins, and he is clearly very happy to see her. "Jennifer, I've got it! I've got it!"

He turns to Kate, repeating the same words.

"Kate, I've got it. Oh this is amazing! This is just . . . this is . . . Jennifer, I need a big favor," he says, looking back to the SFPD detective. In the same instant, he turns back to Kate.

"Kate . . . Kate, we need to . . . Kate we –"

She stops him in his tracks, places her hands on each side of his face. Squeezing just enough to catch his attention, she replies in a calm voice.

"Castle. Rick. Slow down," she tells him, her eyes boring into his. It has been a long time since she has seen this type of excitement, this level of enthusiasm over a case from the man she loves. She knows him when he is like this, when he is in that sugar-mode high. She knows that he is struggling to keep his thoughts straight. She chuckles to herself to remember that there were times back in New York when she would have sworn that he was permanently stricken with an attention disorder.

She watches his eyes focus back onto her, but the excitement in his face remains. Good. She doesn't want to kill the enthusiasm. She just needs to pull him back to earth.

"Rick," she repeats, still holding his face in her hands. That finally does it.

"Kate," he says more calmly, then glances over to Jennifer with a smile.

"Jennifer. The video surveillance from the buses. The bus schedule with driver assignments. How quickly can we get our hands on those?" he asks the detective.

"Which one, Castle?" she asks. "Those are two different things."

"Both. Both of them. We need to see both," he repeats, the excitement beginning to rise in his voice yet again.

"Do you remember Jimmy Blankenship?" He asks, now looking back to Kate. "About a month ago, from the Harper case. Remember –"

"I remember, Rick," Kate tells him. "It's not a case I will forget anytime soon –"

'No, babe – not the case. Not the case. Jimmy. Think about Jimmy. What did he do? What was his profession?"

"He was . . . a bus driver," Kate tells him, as Jennifer's eyebrows rise. Kate begins shaking her head from side to side. No, things just don't fall that neatly into place.

"No, Castle, that is too much of a coincidence. That is –"

"Where did his wife work, Kate?" he interrupts. "Mara. Where did she work?" he asks her, and this time, he can see the emotion flare up in her eyes. Two coincidences? How realistic can this be?

"Fisherman's Wharf," she replies. "Pier 39. Castle, you don't really think –"

"Kate . . . Jennifer," he says, now glancing back and forth between both women. "Kate, remember last month, at the end of the Harper case. You told me that when you mentioned to Jennifer where Mara and Jimmy lived, the first thing Jennifer did was wonder how they could afford that."

He turns back to Jennifer, now addressing her. "You wondered where the money came from. You told Kate that was a very affluent area. Not an area you see bus drivers and retail tour guides owning a home."

He turns to face Kate, but turns and faces Jennifer once again.

"You wondered where they got the money, Jennifer," then turns back to Kate again. "That's what you told me, that she wondered where the money came from. Think about it. Where _did_ they get the money?"

He glances again back to Jennifer, grabbing the woman by the hand and leading her – and Kate – to the sofa. Both women sit down on the sofa as Castle quickly moves to his desk, pulling his chair around the desk and stops in front of the sofa. He sits in front of the two women, looking from face to face, addressing both of them simultaneously.

"We said – remember we were talking after we'd solved the Harper case – after we cleared Mark Harper and got Gretchen and Mark back together," he says, reminiscing with a small smile.

"We said that we'd keep digging. We still had questions. We couldn't really prove everything with Mara Blankenship that we suspected, but we thought there was more to the Blankenships than we were seeing. We knew it. We knew they were living way beyond their means. We knew that they – she in particular – she was capable of pretty nefarious thinking. We promised we'd keep digging, searching for something, anything –"

"We did, to an extent," Jennifer tells Castle. "I checked both parents, their families. There isn't that kind of money there."

"Which only further supports what I am presenting right now," Castle replies excitedly. "Mara is not a person who cares – not one iota – about people." He stops his thoughts, deciding on a different approach.

"Scratch that. Mara Blankenship is a woman who will mercilessly beat another woman, frame a man, tear down the character of a young teenager – and hell, this is what she did in the matter of a week or so as far as we know. Kidnapping? Cripes, kidnapping is the least of what we have already seen this lady capable of doing."

He can tell that that women are considering this. It's a broad coincidence, and they are trying to wrap their heads around this possibility, because one coincidence is . . . well, it's just that – a coincidence. Two coincidences? That's a bit more difficult to explain. On one hand, it appears Castle is grasping at straws, reaching for an easy answer because of someone evil he met last month. On the other hand . . .

On the other hand, there are a few elements that seem to fall very easily – too damn easily – into place.

"Where have the women disappeared from?" he asks.

"On buses, or bus routes," Kate replies.

"We have a bus driver," Castle replies, nodding his head at Kate and holding up one finger, his forefinger. "Where else have they disappeared from?"

"Down at the wharf," Jennifer answers, sitting next to Kate. "The last one – just a couple of days ago – occurred down at Pier 39."

"We have our tourist guide – an evil, evil woman – who works down at the Wharf. On Pier 39 no less," Castle adds, holding up a second finger. He can see the women struggling with this, but Kate is slowly coming around.

"Indulge me, Jennifer. Please," he asks. "This morning, this afternoon, when you get to your precinct – subpoena the bus videos if you have to, but before you do, do this. Cross reference the date and approximate times of the disappearances that we believe occurred on a bus. Then for those dates – only those dates – find out what bus Jimmy Blankenship was driving that day or that night. If I'm wrong, then we've not wasted a lot of time or energy. But if I'm right . . ."

He stands for a quick instant, ready to pace, but forces himself to sit back down in front of Kate and Jennifer.

"I'm betting that we will find a one hundred percent match, Kate," he says, looking at the woman he loves, then casting his gaze to the woman next to her. "I'm positive that here is what we will find, Jennifer. Every woman who went missing on a bus, went missing on a bus driven by Jimmy Blankenship. I'm betting that he was working every one of those nights. I'm positive that the last known areas of those women will coincide with Jimmy's bus route for that evening."

Then – in a moment he will later claim as pure inspiration from the mind of a mystery novelist – Castle smiles broadly.

"Once we have those routes, Jennifer, I am betting that we will see gaps in the video surveillance recordings from Jimmy's bus. I am betting that there will be gaps where he turned surveillance off, masking whatever was happening on his bus."

Kate and Jennifer glance at one another again, each trying to decipher what they see in the other's eyes. It's a far-out, fantastic theory – but each of them can see the practical possibility in what would otherwise seem an impossible thought.

"You have to admit, Jennifer," Kate begins, "Jimmy being a bus driver is a coincidence. But his wife working down at the Wharf. At the very pier where women have disappeared? At some point, things stop being coincidences and are simply what they are –"

"Clues that cannot be ignored," Jennifer agrees, still mulling it over in her mind. "How did you even come up with this, Rick?" Jennifer asks.

He explains his walk, and the parting conversation with Veronica Mitchell, and how she placed the possibility in his mind that the answer to this current case could be found in the unanswered questions of a previous case. When put in those terms, suddenly both the detective and the ex-detective soften considerably to the theory.

"We should also check," Kate now begins, "to see whether or not Mara was working the pier on those evenings – and there are just a few of them – when our women went missing down at the pier."

"A husband and wife team handling the abductions is convenient," Jennifer admits, "but more than that, it would explain the coordination between the bus lines and the inevitable boat trip to the island – if we are right about the island. Having a wife who works down at the pier, who could make sure a boat is ready and waiting -"

"And who could make these arrangements without attracting any attention or suspicion," Kate adds.

"Yeah, this could work, Castle," Jennifer comments softly, whistling at the insidious nature of what they are now considering. It fits, it fits well. Too well. It's just so fantastic.

Castle sees them struggling, and he can't blame them. Even now, he is second-guessing himself. The last five or ten minutes have been a whirlwind of mental calisthenics.

"I know, ladies," he begins. "I know. It's just too fantastic. Too pact. Too easy. But remember," he continues, now standing and moving toward his desk before turning back to face them.

"We all felt there was more, last month, to the Blankenships. We all felt – no, we knew – that there was something else about those two. We promised we would dig deeper. Well, now we are digging deeper. Certainly not in the direction that we anticipated. How could we? But it doesn't matter. We are digging now, and we are struggling with what we are finding once we put down the shovel. Let's not do that. Let's keep it simple. It won't take long to test this out. It won't take long to cross-reference the dates that our women went missing with Jimmy's schedule, or Mara's schedule. It will take a little longer – I admit – to review surveillance video from the buses, but remember – we are only looking at one bus, and only for a few hours in the night. A far, far easier thing than what we have begun tonight with Eddie Baker's little whorehouse and all the feeds we still have to go through."

Both women nod in agreement.

"By the way, anything on that front from either of you?" Jennifer asks. "I haven't noticed any pattern, anything at all yet."

"I do have one possibility," Kate replies. "A woman, who looks to be in her late thirties, I would say. She appears fairly frequently for a few months and then disappears. It may be nothing."

"What is fairly frequently?" Jennifer asks.

"She appears once a week, sometimes twice a week, for the first few months, but that tailed off in month four," Kate replies.

"It may be nothing," Castle agrees, "but it also may be exactly what we are looking for. I have one possibility also. A man, Face 8 from my logs."

"Let me see him," Jennifer requests, now moving towards Castle's desk. Castle, now standing behind his desk, begins to pull up the image on his monitor.

"I was thinking maybe you might recognize him, just because you have –"

He stops in midsentence, as he hears Jennifer's almost inaudible gasp behind him. He can almost sense the detective tensing up behind him. It does not go unnoticed by Kate Beckett either.

"Jen?" Kate asks, as she moves and stands next to her friend, looking over her shoulder at the image on Castle's screen.

"Who is this, Jen?" Castle asks. "You know this man, don't you."

It is not a question.

"Barry Adams," Jennifer says with a whisper. "City councilman, young, ambitious. Currently the frontrunner for a U.S. congressional seat in the upcoming elections this November."

"Shit," Castle manages, shaking his head. "His . . . visits to Eddie's little house tailed off in the fourth month. That's as far as I have gotten."

"Tailed off?" Jennifer asks. "As in . . . "

"As in he was a regular for the first three months, pretty much weekly. But I made it all the way through November's viewings, and he only showed up once in November."

She group share a long look with one another, as this is a scenario they agreed to look out for. Kate breaks the silence when she walks to her laptop, now on the small side table next to the sofa, underneath the lamp atop the table. She searches for a few seconds, looking for her target. She finds her, turning the laptop to face Jennifer.

"What about her?" she asks the detective, whose immediately upraised eyebrows appear almost comical to Kate. Jennifer is momentarily stunned into silence, before releasing a soft chuckle, shaking her head.

"You know, sometimes you learn things that . . . that you'd just rather not know," the San Francisco cop mutters.

"That's the business, Jen. You know that," Kate tells her. "Who is she?"

"That's Cynthia Bartlett," Jen replies. "The Chief of Staff for Mayor Sandra Clooney."


	17. Chapter 17

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 17**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Monday, February 20, 2012 – 11:25 a.m. – At the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency (SFMTA) Main Building**_

Detective Jennifer Blackard sits against the wall, waiting for the receptionist to return. She has come here to the SFMTA building, and was directed to the Finance and Information Technology group who subsequently pointed her to the Security, Investigations and Enforcement department, who can provide archived videos from the buses. She has already sat down with Scheduling and reviewed their archives. Sure enough, Castle was right on target with his thinking.

Every single kidnapping incident which appears to have occurred on or near a bus also happened to occur somewhere along the 38 Geary bus route, which runs east-west through the city, from the coastline of the Pacific Ocean all the way east to downtown San Francisco. The route runs traverses Geary Street going west to the ocean and both Geary and O'Farrell Streets going eastward back into the city to Market Street. There are a few drivers who typically operate the buses along this route, and one of them is Jimmy Blankenship. And Jimmy Blankenship was working the bus on each of the evenings a disappearance occurred.

And no, Detective Jennifer Blackard does not subscribe to 'coincidences'. Instead, she sees these linkages as clues, as evidence, not coincidences. Her text to Kate Beckett, who is currently down at Fisherman's Wharf, was greeted back with a smiley face, and nothing else.

" _Okay, she's busy,"_ Jennifer had smiled to herself. No matter, by the time she, Kate and Castle split up this morning, departing from his home, all were in sync with the expectation that Jennifer would hit pay dirt.

"Detective Blackard?" a male voice calls to her, snapping her out of her current thoughts.

"Yes," she replies, standing and turning toward the voice. A small man, maybe fortyish with thin wire-rim glasses, stands behind the long window separating guests from the SFMTA employees.

"I'm Neil Francis," he smiles. "Robin over there told me you are looking for specific video archives," he tells her, nodding his head back toward the receptionist who is now sitting down again at her desk.

"Yes, Neil, thank you very much," Jennifer replies, returning the smaller man's smile. At 5'10, Jennifer stands roughly three or four inches taller than the shorter man behind the window. She flashes her badge as she talks, looking down at the man.

"I am looking for footage - for just one bus - but only for the dates and times that are listed here," she tells him, handing him a printout of the specific times she is looking for – times that coincide with the missing women's kidnappings. She does not mention Jimmy Blankenship, does not mention the missing women, does not mention why. She does not need to, as she hands him the subpoena she received on an emergency basis this morning.

"Here is a subpoena for the records I need from you, just so you don't get into any trouble with your superiors," she tells him.

"Subpoena?" he wonders to the woman in front of him. "This sounds serious."

"Just typical police business," she deadpans. "Everyone always asks 'do you have a subpoena?', so we are being a bit more pre-emptive nowadays," she smiles, dazzling the man with a flash of teeth. He smiles in return, as he gazes at the printout she has handed him.

"Give me a minute, I will be right back," he tells her. She returns to the chair up against the wall, musing about how much they have learned in the past four days – after more than four months with no clues, no hints, no whispers – nothing, nada, zip. That in itself tells her that someone very powerful has put the lid on things here. She stays caught up in her thoughts for another minute and half before Neil returns. She smiles as he calls out to her as she realizes he has not returned empty-handed.

"So," he begins. "Here are eight CDs, one for each of the days that you have asked for."

"All for bus 38?" Jennifer double checks.

"All for 38," he acknowledges. "You weren't looking for any others you were you?"

"No, not at all," she replies, smiling again. "This is exactly what I need, Neil. You've been a tremendous help. Thank you very much."

"No problem," the small man smiles. He watches as Jennifer walks toward the door, then turns to walk back to his desk along the windows in the back.

Detective Blackard pulls up her contact texting group – Amigos – and smiles as she quickly types in a message for Kate and Castle.

 _JENNIFER: Got the CDs. Headed to the precinct to view._

She walks to the elevator and enters, pushing the button for the ground floor, anxious to get to the precinct and get started.

Neil Francis – by this time had made it back to his desk. He frowns momentarily before punching in the digits on his cell phone. After a couple of rings, he is rewarded.

"Hey Jimmy – it's Neil at MUNI," he begins. "You wanted to know if anyone ever came asking for video footage of the 38. Well, it just happened."

"You're kidding," a groggy but now very concerned Jimmy Blankenship replies. Jimmy is just a couple of hours into his sleep after a long night and morning on the streets with his bus.

"No, sir," Neil replies. "Came with a subpoena. Asked for –"

"It was a cop?!" Jimmy half screams into the phone?

"Yes, sir . . . well, of course, sir," Neil tells him. I wouldn't hand videos out to just anyone who asks, sir," Neil continues.

Jimmy Blankenship plays him ten thousand dollars a month – in cash – just over double what Neil gets for a salary from the city. That guaranteed Jimmy a heads-up if anyone ever came snooping, or started getting too close. And this is what he considers 'getting too close.' After a few seconds of silence, a very shaken Jimmy Blankenship recovers.

"Thank you, Neil," he tells him, steadying his voice as much as he can. "You did the right thing by calling me."

Blankenship hangs up the call, and immediately punches in another contact on his phone. He gets three rings before an answer.

"Babe, we've got a problem," he tells Mara Blankenship.

 _ **Monday, February 20, 2012 – 11:25 a.m. – Same time, at Richard Castle's Sausalito Home**_

Richard Castle stayed home, as Kate Beckett and Detective Jennifer Blackard got into their respective cars – okay, technically the Ferrari is his, but don't try telling Kate that. He had smiled as the women drove away, confident that they are on the right track. As they drove out of sight, he returned to the den, and to the task at hand watching the surveillance tapes from Eddie Baker's home-away-from-home.

Now, after another seven-plus hours of starting at the screen, his eyes begging for relief, Castle walks upstairs to the master bedroom, into his bathroom, and splashes cold water onto his face. Leaning over his sink, he closes his eyes as the cold water drips off his face, down his chin.

He has been focusing on finding Barry Adams and Cynthia Bartlett this morning, and the trends that they had noticed earlier have continued. Both reduced their visits to once a month in both November and December. In January, Barry was there one time, but Cynthia was absent. Barry has been there once, so far, here in February as well – still down dramatically from the four visits per week seen earlier in the summer and fall. In fact, he was there just last week.

Cynthia Bartlett, however, hasn't been seen at Eddie's lair since December. Not once.

His viewings also struck gold on the third floor. In in his viewings he has noticed another face – this time designated as Face 14 from Room 304.

"Two floors," he muses in disappointment, realizing that with floor 4 finished and floor three mostly finished, he still has two floors to go. Still, he can't tear his thoughts away from one Cynthia Bartlett. The mayor's Chief of Staff has been on his mind since the revelation this morning from Jennifer Blackard. Castle likes Sandra Clooney. Sandra needs to know this. If they're right. If they're wrong, then in Castle's mind, whatever Cynthia does in her private time is her business, the legality of prostitution be damned.

Still, in the back of his mind, Castle has doubts about the San Francisco mayor. Not because of anything she has done. So far, she seems genuine. No, Castle is thinking about a certain William Bracken right now.

He and Kate haven't talked about it in the past week or two – which is something of note, since it was a constant point of topic for the first couple of weeks of the year after the bombshell dropped on them by a man who turned out to be Castle's father. The idea that an ex-district attorney-turned United States Senator could murder his way to the top . . . well, Castle hasn't really gotten over this one. Not yet. Bracken's story is the sort of thing you'd only find in the mind of a Castle, a Patterson, a Cook, or a Crichton.

And if this is possible with a U.S. Senator, then the mayor of a major U.S. city being involved in – or at least aware of – kidnappings?

Certainly possible.

He wipes his face dry, then reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. He smiles as he pulls up his old friend's contact. A few seconds later, he hears the familiar voice on the other end.

"Ricky," Mayor Bob Weldon answers, bringing a laugh to his friend on the west coast. "What can I do for you?"

"You're in a good mood," Castle tells him by way of greeting.

"With good reason," Weldon tells him. "Last night I threw my hat in the ring for the 2014 governor's race. Big fundraiser. Your kind of party, you would have loved it," Weldon laughs.

"Bob, that's fantastic," Castle whistles, glowing with both joy and pride for his long-time friend. "I am sorry I missed it."

"You bet you are," Weldon continues, laughing, then corrects himself – still laughing. "I take that back. If memory serves, you are off the market in the most serious way."

"Well said," Castle replies. "And very true."

"So – is there any news I am supposed to hear on that front?" Weldon asks, smiling from ear to ear.  
"Does my near future include standing next to my best friend watching this hot ex-detective saunter toward us?"

"Well, let's just say that's a conversation you and I are going to have very soon," Castle smiles, "but that's not the reason for my call right now, Bob."

Weldon's smile leaves his face immediately, as he recognizes the serious tone Castle has taken. A tone that the Castle of New York took fairly infrequently, but the Castle of California seems to wear this face often – and well.

What's on your mind, Rick?"

"Bob," Castle responds, rubbing his hand through his mane of hair, stopping to scratch the back of his neck. "I know you and I have already covered this already . . . but I just need to know for certain, just for myself."

"Okay," his friend replies, waiting.

"How well do you trust Sandra Clooney, Bob?"

"With my life, Rick," is the immediate response, and Castle notes to himself that there was no hesitation or pause from the mayor of New York. That's good. It makes him feel better. He's just not certain who to trust, and Bob is helping a great deal.

"You're certain of this?" Castle asks him, wanting to hear a positive confirmation just one more time.

"What's going on, Rick?" Weldon asks, now plopping down on his sofa and crossing his legs. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing, old friend," Castle replies easily. "I just needed to make sure, that's all. I've learned something, and needed to know whether or not approaching Clooney with this is a smart move, or if it is akin giving the canary to cat."

"I trust her as I trust you, Rick," Weldon tells him. That's enough for Castle.

"Thanks, Bob," he tells him. "This helps a lot. Enjoy your polls, as I'm sure you will be a shoo-in, old friend."

"Oh, I don't know about shoo-in," Weldon replies casually, "but I think I have a decent shot at it, to be honest."

"Make sure your closet is clean," Castle says with a chuckle.

"Ricky. Ricky," Weldon repeats just a little louder, the levity clear in his voice. "Now do you know me to have done anything out of the ordinary?"

"I am stunned you were elected mayor, Bob," Castle laughs.

"You aren't the only one, Rick," Weldon laughs with him. "You aren't the only one."

"I assume I can donate via the normal channels," Castle asks.

"Why Rick, that's damn nice of you. Damn nice of you, man," Weldon replies, uncrossing his legs and now sitting forward. "I appreciate that, my friend."

"Just win," Castle tells him, and clicks off, smiling, promising himself that a trip back to the east coast is in order. One where he will bring Kate with him. There is something important he has to do, and perhaps there – where it all started – is where this should happen. He smiles for a few seconds longer, then brushes the thought away, heading back down the stairs as he dials Sandra Clooney's phone number.

Meanwhile, back in New York, Bob Weldon stares at his phone, thinking for a moment. After a slight hesitation, he pulls up Sandra Clooney's contact information. Something is going on and she's a friend. He needs to give her a heads up – and if the roles were reversed, he would want – he would hope that Sandra Clooney would give him advance warning. That's what friends do for one another.

But Rick is a friend, also. Yes, he's known Sandra longer, but somehow he is far closer to Rick. If he has to trust only one of them, and if he has to trust one of them to do what is right while trying to protect the other – well, Rick wins. That's Rick's nature, not Sandra's. Rick is a writer who looks for a story. Sandra is a politician – like him – and politicians look for cover. He puts the phone down, sending a silent prayer to the heavens, hoping he is doing the right thing.

In the end, he simply trusts Rick to do the right thing, and not at the expense of Sandra Clooney. In the end, he trusts Rick just a bit more than his fellow mayor in the city by the bay.

" _Don't make me regret this, Ricky,"_ he says softly to himself, as his eyes catch the news reporter on the large television screen giving yet another re-run of last night's announcement festivities.


	18. Chapter 18

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 18**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Monday, February 20, 2012 – 11:28 a.m. – Roughly the same time, at Pier 39 on Fisherman's Wharf**_

Kate Becket sits on the bench, roughly thirty feet or so away from the outdoor, makeshift ticket counter just outside the Pier 39 entrance where her target currently works. She has reprised her damsel-in-distress disguise, but dropped the 'in-distress' mode for the afternoon. She sports the same blonde wig and blue contact lens. She's added sunglasses and a large, broad hat with a floppy brim that almost covers her eyes. She wears an oversized sweater to simulate a few added pounds, and purple lip gloss finishes the look. She looks like the prototypical Fisherman's Wharf tourist, out souvenir hunting - only she is in hunt mode for a very different prey right now.

She has to make this look good, it has to look authentic, because Mara Blankenship has met Kate Beckett – up close and personal. Mara knows how the ex-detective talks, how she sounds. If Mara recognizes her, it's all over. Most likely she and her husband would go to the ground – deep – never to be seen again. Jennifer suspects they have been doing this for some time, and only recently graduated to the big leagues. They'd resurface somewhere else, under new identities, and start their game anew.

She cannot allow that to happen.

She spots Mara behind the makeshift counter, standing on a slightly raised platform that allows her to look down upon the patrons who approach for tickets. It also gives her a good vantage point to see the pier unobstructed. As it was the last time she saw her, there is a long line of waiting patrons, eager to get their tickets for the next cruise. She spots Jerry behind the counter as well, Mara's co-worker from the last time she and Castle were here. She fights down a natural sense of déjà vu, understanding that now there are two people in play here that she must ensure sure do not recognize her. She will have to make this fast. But first, Mara has to come out from behind the table counter for this to work. Or at least so she thinks.

She glances at her watch. 11:26 a.m. She watches as the patrons in line slowly make their way forward. A few minutes pass by and then a young woman – screaming warnings at the top of her lungs – comes barreling down the sidewalk on her . . . unicycle?

Seriously? People actually still try to ride those mobile deathtraps?

It is immediately evident that something is very wrong. The woman is out of control.

Of course she is.

"Look out!" Kate screams, now rushing toward the customers standing in line, but trying to be careful not to break her cover with any official-sounding warning. She has to tone it down a bit. After all, the normal tourist most likely initial, split-second reaction is self-preservation, not some heroic effort. Regardless, she has to try to steer the people in the line clear of the impending disaster that is pedaling at breakneck speed toward them.

With people frantically diving out of the way, the unicycle – and its rider – smashes into the ticket counter top, knocking both Jerry and Mara backwards, splintering the counter, leaving pamphlets and paper tickets flying everywhere. The credit card machine ends up some fifteen feet away after a couple of damaging bounces break it into pieces. The cycle is clearly non-functional, and its rider lays sprawled atop poor Jerry, who is moaning in pain.

Kate assesses the mass of humanity spread across the concrete, with people crying in pain and screaming in terror, wondering if this is some type of attack of a different nature. And given the times, who can blame them. Finally, a voice Kate Beckett remembers screams out.

"What the fuck!" Mara exclaims, her elbows bloody, the palms of her hands bloody, and a growing ache in her right hip. She lies extended, flat on her back, looking skyward. She turns her head, glancing over at the woman still spread across her co-worker.

"Jerry, are you okay?" she asks, trying to move her arms and legs, hoping everything is still working. She offers a glare at the woman still on top of Jerry who is rubbing her temples.

" _I'll give you a headache, bitch,"_ Mara thinks to herself.

"Do I look okay?" Jerry manages as he turns his head and spits blood from his mouth after biting his tongue during the collision.

"I am so sorry!" the woman begins blubbering. "I am so sorry," she continues to express, wiping the blood from her elbows that she has scraped along the concrete. A large bruise is growing on her thigh under her jeans. She touches the area gingerly, finally able to pick herself up from the ground. She reaches down and helps Jerry get to his feet, fighting an emerging limp as she does.

Kate, still in disguise, steps over the carnage to Mara and bends down, attempting to help her to her feet. Mara stumbles and winces from the pain in her hip, barely keeping herself upright, using Kate for leverage. Kate puts both arms around the woman to help stabilize her. She smiles inwardly as she realizes that Mara is in no position to see through her disguise.

"I am so sorry," the unicyclist tells Mara, now standing next to her with a whining Jerry beside her. "My gear popped and I couldn't stop. I was trying to warn everyone. I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"

"Look at me!" Mara hisses angrily. "Do I look like I'm all right!?" These damn tourists. This isn't the first time some stupid tourist has knocked her over in the past year and a half. This is getting ridiculous.

"I said I was sorry," the woman states testily – her tone changing quickly. Something flashes in her eyes, and immediately Mara recognizes that – regardless if she is a clumsy fool and all of this is her fault - this is not a woman to mess with. Kate sees it also, standing there with Mara, and suppresses a shiver. She turns her attention to Mara.

"You will be okay," Kate tells Mara, lightly brushing pieces of wood off of her. She intentionally lowers her voice slightly, and speaks with a raspy edge to her voice.

"Thank you," Mara replies, genuine gratitude in her voice. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," Kate repeats, nodding her head, and immediately turns her focus elsewhere, at other people still picking themselves off the ground. As Kate turns and begins walking away, a small smile builds on her face.

 _ **About Twenty Minutes Later**_

"Shit!" Mara half screams, then catches herself as she glances around her at the eyes that now follow her. She turns away, now talking in hushed whispers, but no less angry, as she walks quickly toward the pier entrance.

"Shit! Shit! You have got to be kidding me, Jimmy!"

She is on the phone with her husband, Jimmy Blankenship, who himself has just gotten off the phone with Neil Francis at SFMTA. Today has turned into hell on earth.

" _This is just great,"_ she muses to herself as she rubs her hip, immediately wincing from the cuts and bruises on her palms. First that idiot cyclist with the freaky eyes, and now this. She silently wonders what he did to cause attention.

"What did you do, Jimmy?" she whispers angrily. "This was perfect. No one suspected anything on the buses. Muni has always been a safe alternative for people. That's part of the reason we chose using you on the buses."

"Don't drop this on me, Mara," he fights back, raising his voice. "You're the one who broke the pattern by taking the damn Ward woman at the wharf the other night," he tells her, his anger rising. "It was too much too soon, and you know it. We take what – ten, eleven girls – whatever, in five to six months and no one is the wiser. But no, you have to go and get greedy and take a second woman in two days. And now two days later, the police are sniffing around. Sniffing around here. They will be looking for me, not you. This is all on you, Mara. I won't let you take me down."

"And exactly what is that supposed to mean?" she asks, the warning tone in her voice clear to her husband.

"It means you need to wise up, stay with the program, Mara," he tells her. "Stay with the plan that has been working. We need to talk to Donovan. We may need to disappear, and re-group somewhere else."

"Don't be stupid," she tells him. "We aren't going anywhere. We knew the police would catch on at some point. But they have nothing as long as we don't give them anything."

"Oh my God," an exasperated Jimmy yells into the phone. "Were you not listening, Mara? They came _to MUNI_. They asked for surveillance videos for _one bus_. One bus out of 800 plus buses. Mine! Hell, she sked for Bus 38 by number.

"She?" Mara asks, her senses on high alert now.

"Some detective from the city," he replies, still seething.

"Do you know her?" Mara asks.

"Dammit, Mara, for once in your life, listen to what I am saying," Jimmy explodes. "I was not there! I am giving all of this to you second-hand, from Francis. He saw the woman, not me."

Mara considers Jimmy's news to her, and rubs her hip, biting down on the pain. Despite his concerns, she remains convinced that the key here is not to panic. People who panic make mistakes. Mistakes get you caught. And they aren't caught. Not yet. Let them get close. They can still pull this off.

"Nothing changes Jimmy," she finally tells him, back to her normal voice and her heartbeat finally slowing down a bit. "Don't panic. Don't do anything stupid. They are looking at bus 38, the Geary route. You drive bus 1 as well, the California route. They didn't ask for you, by name. We will make it through this. Just sit tight, and give me a few minutes to think."

She hangs up the phone, cursing. No, this isn't good, her confident statements to her husband notwithstanding.

Meanwhile, a half mile away outside Alioto's restaurant on the wharf, Kate Beckett smiles as she listens through her earpiece in her left ear. Lindy Matthews sips a glass of ice water with orange slices, and smiles at her friend. "Got something interesting already?"

Kate can only smile. The idea of planting a bug on Mara was a stroke of genius only if it were successful. Only if she didn't recognize Kate, only if Kate could get close enough, only if Kate could plant the high-tech device onto the woman without being detected. Lindy had promised a distraction. Kate had no idea that Lindy's version of a distraction would be so . . . so physical.

Only sheer surprise had helped Kate suppress a laugh as she saw Lindy barreling out of control towards the ticket counter. Then as Lindy plowed into the structure, destroying it and scaring the hell out of about thirty or forty people in the area, Kate could only marvel at Lindy's version of taking one for the team.

And yes, it has been so worth it. She wasn't sure exactly what they were hoping to gain from bugging the woman. The device that Mike had provided to Lindy for Kate is soft and pliable, and as of this moment, is literally attached to the back of Mara Blankenship's hair, right behind the neck. Both women figured that planting it on Mara's clothing would likely fail. It would either get knocked off, or easily found by the woman. And they have no doubts that Mara will find this. But they believe that its location will buy them a few hours before the woman goes home to shower.

Neither had any idea that Jennifer's quest for information this morning would have such a domino effect.

"Oh Lindy, this is far more than just interesting," Kate replies. "This is the 'gotcha' we weren't even daring to hope for."

"So soon?" Lindy asks, taking in the seafood aromas around them.

"You know, sometimes fate is just favorable," Kate muses, recalling numerous time when fate has been anything but. "I've learned not to question it, but to just accept it gladly. Anyway, are you sure you're okay. That was quite a fall."

"A controlled fall, Kate," she counters easily – for the third time in the last twenty minutes - with a smile. "And we got what we wanted. Mara bugged for the next few hours. And evidently spilling information."

"But you were bleeding," Kate argues, glancing again at the woman's elbows that are still leaking blood onto the makeshift bandages.

"It had to be real, Kate," Lindy dismisses. "Anyway, it's just a few scratches. I made sure Mara took the brunt of it."

Kate chuckles, and thinks of Jerry.

"Poor Jerry did also," she tells the ex-military woman.

"He'll live," Lindy offers nonchalantly. "Big baby if you ask me."

Kate thinks back to the look Lindy gave Mara, and recalls Castle's warning that – according to Mike Monroe – Lindy Matthews is more than capable of taking care of herself. Her thoughts suddenly shift gears.

"I have to warn Jennifer," Kate says quickly. "Jimmy knows that something is up now. That's what I was listening to. Evidently he has a plant inside MUNI who must have called him as soon as Jennifer left."

"Did he recognize Blackard?" Lindy asks, taking two large swallows and throwing the empty plastic cup into a garbage can.

"No," Kate tells her, "Thankfully. But it won't take much for him to find out which officer was snooping around. I'm sure he got a good look at her, and for all we know, may have even gotten a picture of her. Either way, things are going to heat up quickly now."

 _ **Monday, February 20, 2012 – 12:03 p.m. – Back at Richard Castle's Sausalito Home**_

The incoming intercom beep on her phone startles Mayor Sandra Clooney, who has been staring out the window, re-hashing the speech she is going to make in less than two hours at her press conference. She is going to go on the air and speak about the kidnappings.

"Yes Karla," she acknowledges to her assistant outside her door.

"There is a Mr. Castle on the phone for you, Mayor," Karla tells her.

"Give him to me," the mayor says quickly, and Karla punches the transfer button to send the call to the mayor's phone.

"Mr. Castle," she begins. "So how are things across the bridge?"

"They are moving along as planned," he tells her.

"So then, to what do I owe the pleasure?" she asks him.

"I promised to keep you in the loop, Mayor Clooney," Castle begins, as he takes a seat in his den. "We have found a couple of leads we are running down with MUNI. I don't want to say much more – not just yet – but I would really be surprised – very disappointed – if this doesn't yield fruit for us. I know you were planning on talking to the press this afternoon, and while it's too early to throw the idea out there about MUNI, I just wanted you to know."

"I appreciate this, Mr. Castle," she tells him, smiling inwardly, mentally noting another reason to trust the man across the bridge in the future. "Anything specific I should know?"

"No, ma'am," he tells her. "Well, I will tell you this – we have narrowed things down to a couple of buses," he tells her, offering a small white lie. He does not want to give away that they are down to one route, the 38. Not yet.

"I hope to have more for you by this evening – one way or the other," he promises her. "And I will definitely be watching this afternoon."

"Good to know," she tells him. "I guess we will be speaking this evening."

"Yes, either way," he tells her.

"Good. Thank you, Mr. Castle," she tells him as she hangs up. Both feel good about the conversation. Castle in that he hasn't given too much away, or so he thinks. Clooney in that she is confident she has found another confidante, another person she can trust. That list is very, very short at the moment. And for good reason.

Unknown to either of them, without minutes of her hanging up their call, another call is being made from a cell phone in the stairwell of city hall.

The phone rings four times. No matter, he knows that he rarely answers on the first or second ring. He is rewarded for his patience.

"Hello?" the voice greets him.

"Hello, sir," he answers. "You wanted me to call you if I ever heard anything suspicious, anything that might interest you from the mayor's office."

"Yes," the voice replies, now showing considerably more interest. "What do you have for me, Anderson?"

"A Mr. Castle called the mayor just a few minutes ago," Anderson tells him. "Short conversation, but evidently he knows something about the kidnappings, because he mentioned something about MUNI and bus routes. Said that they – he said the word _they_ – were looking at a couple of routes and they are confident they are on the right track. So evidently he has some kind of team working with him."

"Really now," the voice replies. "Well, that is very disappointing. Very disappointing. A Mr. Castle you say?"

"I didn't get a first name, sir. I do know that he is either in the East Bay or the Sausalito or Hamilton area."

"And you know this how?" the voice asks.

"The mayor asked him how things were going across the bridge," Anderson tells him, feeling good that he is able to provide some valuable information.

"Well then," the voice concludes, "I will have to look into this. And Anderson?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You were absolutely right to call me," the voice replies. "Thank you. I will pass on something for you this week."

"Thank you, sir – I appreciate –"

Anderson stops as he realizes he is now talking to dead air. No matter, he will get a nice stipend this week for just a few minutes work. Easily the best gig on the planet, he reminds himself.

On a yacht cruising along the Pacific coast, just off Seal Rock approaching the Golden Gate Bridge, Donovan rubs his chin, considering what he now knows. He immediately thinks about the Castles, the new women's shelter over in Sausalito, funded and run by one Richard Castle. Yes, that would fit 'across the bridge.' And yes, this would make sense that a man so consumed with the plight of battered women would take an interest in women going missing. And the idea that such a man would have access to Clooney?

Yes, that is easily plausible.

He continues thinking, rubbing circles on his chin. He glances over at the lithe form of the beautiful young blonde who lies on the large oval bed here in his master stateroom. Her eyes are glassy, as she is still groggy from the drugs they keep in her system. He places a hand on her exposed thigh, but she barely moves or acknowledges him.

"We need to wake you up a bit, Miss Ward," he tells the woman on the bed who does not hear him.

He pats her on the rear, then stands and climbs the stairs to the deck, immediately breathing in the clear sea air and smiling. Here he is at home, at peace, at rest. It is his sanctuary.

"So I wonder how much you know, Mr. Richard Castle?" he muses aloud, immediately deciding that a visit to the Castle's complex is in order. Soon. And it won't be a visit he makes by himself. And who knows, he may find new fish at the complex to add to his collection.

He takes his phone back out of his pocket, and punches a contact number. Seconds later, his party answers.

"Yes, sir," the voice replies.

"Benny," Donovan begins, addressing his security chief. "I believe I have a new job for you. One I may choose to accompany you on, my friend."

He hangs up the phone, and – taking in a deep breath – now considers how to address this breach with a certain couple in the city.


	19. Chapter 19

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 19**

 **DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

 _ **Monday, February 20, 2012 – 7:05 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Home in Sausalito**_

Kate Becket sits at the dinner table next to Richard Castle, and across from Detective Jennifer Blackard. Two empty pizza boxes adorn the table, with a couple of cans of beer and two half-full glasses of wine. Jennifer picks up a can of beer, taking one last swig before tossing it in the trash can some eight feet away.

"Impressive," Castle muses.

"Warrior fan," she smiles.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he smiles in return.

"Don't be," she challenges. We're going to be pretty good in another year or two, mark my words. Curry is for real."

"He should have been a Knick," Castle replies. "The Warriors took him with the seventh pick. The Knicks wanted him with the eighth pick. One lousy pick."

"When in Rome, Castle," Jennifer chuckles. "Get with the program, you live in the Bay Area now."

"So, I love the NBA as much as the next girl," Kate says, with a roll of the eyes. "And I'm sure Espo and Ryan would be weighing in on this conversation –"

"You bet your ass they would," Castle offers with a wink.

"Guys, do I need to leave already," Jennifer laughs, with a wink to Kate.

"Well, now that you –"

"Castle!" Kate exclaims, with an under the table kick that finds Castle's shin. He rewards the women with a yelp and a chagrined, chastised look.

"Don't worry, I will make that up to you," she whispers.

"You'd better," he whispers in return, and then turns his gaze toward the SFPD detective.

So goes the dinner this evening. They are relaxing, releasing pent-up energy after an interesting and productive day. They glance at each other one last time, before breaking into smiles. It's time to get down to business, reviewing their findings for the day.

Castle goes first, letting them know that he has promised the mayor that they would get back to her tonight with whatever they have found.

"I want to get back to her at a decent hour," he tells them. "We aren't the only ones who have had an interesting day."

Kate and Jennifer both nod their heads. This leads into a discussion about the mayor's press conference earlier this afternoon. Mayor Sandra Clooney was more forthcoming than any of them had imagined, talking about her belief that this is a human trafficking issue, that the women are believed to be alive, followed by a commitment on her part to do all possible to find these women. They – like the press contingent – had zoned in on the mayor's closing statements.

" _And one final statement, ladies and gentlemen of our city. To the parties responsible for these nefarious deeds, and to the parties who are paying what I can only imagine are exorbitant sums of money to . . . interact with these unwilling women, I can promise you that we are taking every step, and will pay any price to find these women. Rest assured, we will find you – each of you – and publicize your involvement, no matter your position in our communities and workplaces, and prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. Whether you hide within the walls of our alleys, our precincts, or the walls of city hall, we will find you."_

It was a clear volley across the bow aimed at anyone in city hall, anyone in her administration who may be involved in any way. A clear shot aimed at the city's police department.

"I have to admit I was stunned," says Castle. "She went much farther than I ever dreamed. I'd love to be a fly on the wall to witness the fallout from that."

"I liked it," Kate says aloud. "She put both the perpetrators and the customers on the clock. Now she waits for someone to make a mistake, or for someone to panic."

"Which brings us to what we have found," Jennifer says. "You were right, Castle. I have only watched three of the videos so far. Trust me, you thought watching Eddie's surveillance videos was painful, this is time-consuming and tedious watching every second of every video starting around midnight for each video. But so far, on each of the three I have managed to watch, there is a definite pause – a definite point where the video stops – is shut off and then comes back on. In each case, there is about a two minute pause, according to the running timeclock."

"That's fantastic," Kate tells them. "This is what you thought we would find, Castle."

"We definitely want to view those videos, Jennifer," Castle agrees. "If we know those are the stopping points, then we can check the videos to verify that our women actually boarded the bus during those –

"They did," Jennifer interrupts, cutting him off. "In each case, there is clear visual evidence of our women in question getting on the bus. What we do not see," she continues, "is our women disembarking from the bus. One minute they are there, on the bus, sitting in a seat. The next moment on video, they are gone."

"People don't just disappear," Castle says. "Unfortunately. That would be so cool," he adds with a wink to Kate.

"Well, that confirms it then," Kate tells her, smiling at Castle. "I already told this to Castle, but Lindy and I were able to bug Mara Blankenship down at the wharf. The best I had hoped for was just to get a sense of her movements, what her day is like so we know what to look for that would be out of the ordinary in the future. My plan was to spend a lot of time in the next few days down at the wharf, just watching her."

"Instead," Jennifer adds, "you were able to listen in on a conversation between Mara and Jimmy – and subsequently give me the warning that they are on to me."

"Technically, not yet," Kate corrects her. "They know that the police are asking questions about Jimmy's bus and bus route. They know that the police are investigating MUNI. They don't know which police officer was involved, though."

"That's child's play for them," Jennifer tells them. "We have to assume they have a picture of me – either taken by Neil Francis or some surveillance in the building of me coming and going."

"Which is why you are here, indefinitely, with us," Castle reminds us. "I see you brought your travel bag. Good. You will be staying here with us until we put this thing to bed."

"So," Kate begins, "we know that these girls who were taken on the buses were on Jimmy's bus at the time. That's something we can be pretty sure about now, given what we now know from the video surveillance you have seen," she says with a glance toward Jennifer, "and Mara's conversation with her husband. And something else to file away – just a side note – I didn't get the impression that the Mara and Jimmy union is a perfect one. Very snippy conversation between the two."

"Is that something you think we can exploit?" Jennifer asks.

"I think we definitely keep that as an option in our back pockets," Kate replies. "An option high on the list."

"What we _don't_ know," Castle reminds them, "includes two very important pieces of information. First – we don't know where these women have been taken, where they are being held. That is an empty box we have to fill. Finding our women is the top priority. I admit, this has been a good day, but we need to find them, and soon. If the people behind this know that someone is closing in, they may panic and bolt. We may never find the women then. We need to get out to the island quickly – as in tomorrow type of quickly."

"Agreed, Castle," Kate says, nodding her head along with Jennifer. "What is point number two?"

"Point number two," Castle replies, "is the identity of some of the key people who are now – how did Clooney refer to them?"

"Customers," Jennifer replies.

"Yeah, that was it," he agrees. "We don't know who these customers are. We have a list of potential suspects, but that list is still just a big maybe."

"A 'maybe' or not, it is all we have on that front right now," Kate interjects. "Given that we have been correct about the buses, and about the Blankenships . . . what can it hurt to take a leap and just assume that these people – Clooney's chief of staff, the city councilman – let's just for a moment assume they are involved. They are new customers for whoever is running this operation."

"Beckett," Castle whistles. "Nice leap," he smiles, admiring how differently Kate thinks now with the shackles of police procedure stripped away.

"I don't mind taking that leap," Jennifer agrees. "We already know that they are customers of prostitutes. We know that they have already gone down that road. Assuming that they could decide to spend their money elsewhere within the profession really isn't that hard, is it?"

"But why?" Castle asks. "That's the question. Getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar is one thing. Why graduate to a snare, to an animal trap like sex with women you know are there against their own will? Why go that route with all that a potential congressman or a rising star in city hall have to lose?"

"And the answer to that question is something we might not know until the very end, Castle," Jennifer tells her. "But if we are going to take that so-called leap, we should probably start watching each of them, don't you think?"

"Yes, probably so," Castle agrees. "The problem is we are running out of bodies . . . as in our bodies. The three of us can only do so much. Following Adams and Bartlett around the city – that takes two of us, leaving only one left. And trust me, any of us heading out to Angel Island by themselves is lunacy. If that's where the women are, then it's got to be fairly heavily protected."

"And well-hidden," Kate adds.

"What about some of your people, Castle?" Jennifer asks, knowing that both Mike Monroe and Lindy Matthews have been extremely helpful in the past couple of days.

"I want to, I really do," Castle tells her. "But I have to be conscious of how much time they are spending away from the complex, along with the reality that they need some down time also."

"That goes for you, too, babe," Kate tells him. "You've spent a lot of time away from the complex in the past three, four days as well. They need you out there more than anyone else."

"Not really," he argues. "Well, yes, you are right. I've spent a lot of time away since last mid-week or so," he agrees. "But I disagree on your second point. It's far more important that Samantha be there, that Mike and Lindy are there, that Dawn and Colin are there. Given everything we are running into out here, I think the smartest – or maybe luckiest decision I made out here was bringing in the big guns for security."

"Any new residents?" Jennifer asks.

"Not since Pamela Hamilton checked in last week," Castle replies, "thankfully." He gazes ahead, lost in thought. Kate has learned to allow his these little wanderings. A few seconds later, he continues.

"So . . . and hear me out before you shoot me down," he begins.

"It's a horrible idea, Castle," Kate warns him, drawing raised eyebrows from Jennifer Blackard.

"Okay, now that was creepy," she chuckles at the couple. "What is a horrible idea?"

"Hear me out," Castle repeats. "We want to use all of our available resources, right? And he's already proven to be –"

"Horrible idea, babe," Kate tells him again. "Sam is certainly not anyone that I think any of us could control. At he's certainly not at our beck and call."

"Oh," Jennifer sighs in recognition. "I hate to say it, but I think I agree with Kate on this one, Rick," Jennifer says, trying to soften it somewhat. "Keep in mind, Sam plays the quid pro quo game. He helps us, he will expect a favor in return in the future."

"Well, we are short of resources," Castle grumbles under his breath. "We don't know who to trust in your precinct, I'm wary of pulling any of my resources out again . . ."

"Where are Espo and Ryan when you need them?" Kate laughs.

"You'll have to tell me about this Espo and Ryan someday," Jennifer says with a smile. "Not the first time either of you have brought them up."

The discussion momentarily breaks down back into a series of non-business topics, as more wine is poured and another can of beer is opened. It is dark outside already, what with sunset tonight roughly an hour and a half ago. Laughter is heard through the open windows of the home.

Off the driveway in the street down below, however, there is a different kind of laughter."

"No, sir, no one has come back out," Benny offers his boss. Next to him, Randy chuckles at the video game in his hands, following the munching yellow circle around the screen. Benny shoots him a quick elbow, quieting the man.

"No, sir, I think it's safe to say they are in for the night," Benny continues. "You want us to go inside?"

"No Benny," Donovan replies calmly. "Your instructions tonight are to just keep an eye on them. The plan remains the same. We approach Castle's complex tomorrow evening."

"Yes sir," Benny replies, and hangs the call up. "A little while longer here, Randy," he tells his partner in the passenger seat of the dark gray Porsche SUV. The darkened windows hide them well, and Benny decides to pull up another twenty feet beyond the house.

"Never hurts to be too cautious," he tells Randy who is questioning him with his eyes.

"I don't get why we don't just hit the complex tonight, be done with it," Randy offers.

"Because Castle is here, at his house, you dimwit," Benny replies with a roll of the eyes. If Randy weren't so good with a knife and hand-to-hand combat, Benny would have dropped this joker years ago. As it stands, Randy has saved Benny's bacon more times than he can remember, so he allows the slightly younger man his . . . idiotic moments.

"We will make sure that Castle is there tomorrow evening," Benny tells him. "And then we strike – and hopefully cop a couple of women for our troubles."

Randy simply smiles, and returns his focus to the video game, while staring in the rear view mirror now, watching to ensure no car pulls down the elevated path leading up to Castle's house.

Unfortunately for Benny, that extra twenty feet he has pulled forward takes the black BMW out of range of his rear view mirror. The hunter does not realize he is a prey this evening.

"No, sir, they are still here, Mr. Carlos," the black man in the driver's seat tells Sam Carlos on the phone. A toothpick hangs from his lips, as he gazes ahead at the car that now sits parked, some forty yards ahead around the bend.

"I thought they were leaving, but they just pulled ahead a bit and parked again, so I have dropped back."

He nods his head a couple of times, and glances at his watch.

"Gotcha, Mr. Carlos," he smiles. "I'm here until they leave – if they leave."


	20. Chapter 20

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 20**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Morning, February 21, 2012 – 6:48 a.m. – At Richard Castle's Home in Sausalito**_

The Ferrari roars to life and slowly backs out of the garage, easily gliding down the incline that rises from the street to Castle's driveway. The morning fog is heavy in the air, casting a pale, white shadow across the neighborhood and mountainside. The frequent fog show has become a Richard Castle favorite of the Bay Area. It always reminds him of the mystery story he has yet to write, the still-undiscovered masterpiece he has yet to pen. He smiles as they pull out, down the driveway from his home that is built into the side of the rocky hill and turn onto the road, headed to the complex.

"Can't wait to get there," he says smiling, glancing at his passenger. Kate simply returns his smile, squeezing his hand as she glances out through the passenger window.

He wants to spend some time at the Castles Complex this morning, and is looking forward to a day 'back at the office", meeting with a couple of the residents. He spent much of last night in Kate's arms feeling guilty, feeling like he is losing focus, losing his priority, feeling like he is slowly slipping away from his reason for picking the West Coast in the first place. Sure, he was running from something – or someone to be more accurate – but he was also running _to_ something. Something better, something important. Something that is suddenly taking a back seat to the interesting case de jour that inevitably continues to pop up.

Kate had tried to remind him that the only reason he is even interested in the current case of the missing women is because of Pamela Hamilton. Had her daughter not been taken, it is highly probable that Castle wouldn't even be involved with the case.

" _It's safe to say that even I probably wouldn't be involved had Pamela not brought this to our attention, Rick,"_ she had told him last night. He had reluctantly agreed.

" _The fact that this is her daughter is what pulled us into this in the first place. Were it not for Pamela, the only one of us who would likely be looking into this would have been Jennifer, and she would probably still be back at square one – where she was when you and I got involved."_

Regardless, he is anxious to get to his complex, to see how his residents – people he now feels responsible for – are progressing. For a few seconds, they both are quiet as he starts down the road. Kate continues glancing out through the window – or so it looks to Castle. In reality, from the passenger's side mirror, Kate notices the dark gray Porsche Cayenne that slowly pulled out behind them. The windows on the SUV are darkened, only heightening her senses further. Senses honed by years with the NYPD. Senses that have told her that she has never seen this car parked there before, and even though she has only been here three months, Castle has introduced her to the immediate neighbors. She recognizes the sign of a tail immediately.

"We've got company," she tells Castle, while still glancing at the car in the mirror.

"Really?" Castle says excitedly, some of the old exuberance leaking out. She shakes her head with a smile.

"Uh, that's not a good thing, Rick," she snickers.

"Then why are you smiling," he counters with a smile of his own. "C'mon, Beckett, you know this just makes it more exciting. That just means we know we are on to something."

"No, Rick," she counters herself, this time losing the smile. "It means that someone is on to us. Someone knows we know something. That's makes this dangerous."

"Wait a second," he say suddenly, now quickly realizing that whoever these people are who are following them, he is getting ready to take them to the complex . . . and to the women who have come there thinking it could be their safe haven away from the violence that has targeted them.

"We can't just let them follow us to the complex," he tells her, now all indications of humor and playfulness disappearing.

"What are you doing?" he asks as he watches her pull her phone out from her purse.

"Warning Jennifer," she tells him. "If someone is following us, then perhaps she might have a tail as well."

A few seconds later, Jennifer picks up on the second ring.

"What'cha got?" the SFPD detective asks her friend.

"A tail on our rear, that's what," Kate tells her. "Check your six as well."

"Call you back," Jennifer tells her, hanging up, and quickly makes an unexpected left turn down into the parking lot of a local restaurant. She drives around, and parks. She stays in the car for a moment, checking in her rear view mirror to see if anyone has followed her, or stopped up on the road above. She waits a few minutes until she is satisfied that no one is on her, then returns to her call, dialing Kate's number.

"All clear here," she says immediately when Kate answers. "Do I need to turn around?"

"No," Kate says quickly. "Stick with the plan. Jimmy knows that the police are on to him. His shift ends in less than fifteen minutes," she continues, glancing at her watch. "We want him to see a bit of a police presence when he pulls in to the depot this morning."

"Okay, but are you sure you don't want –"

"I'm sure, Jen," Kate interrupts. "Just make sure he sees your car, but not you."

"I know," her friend tells her. "You keep me posted, and keep your eyes open."

"Always," Kate tells her, which brings a wicked smile back to Castle's face for a moment as Kate hangs up the call and puts her phone back into her purse.

"Do I have something to be worried about there, my love?" he asks, wiggling he eyes.

"No," she tells him, now focused again on the tail in the mirror. "And if you say anything voyeuristic, I swear I will break your . . . well, I will figure out something painful for you."

"Promises, promises," he tells her with a smirk, but quickly refocuses as he glances in the rearview mirror at the car tailing them, with a small Fiat separating them.

"They aren't very good at this," he tells Kate, shaking his head as he glances in the mirror again. "It's almost as if they aren't even trying to hide themselves."

"I have the same feeling as you," she admits. "You'd think that someone who is pulling off such an elaborate plan for taking women, keeping it hidden as well as they have would have more experienced trailers in their . . ."

"What, Kate?" he asks, noticing her sudden silence. He glances at her as he continues.

"Why'd you stop –"

"Castle!" Kate screams, looking past him through the driver's side window at the rapidly approaching car. The sickening crunch that accompanies the t-boning crash rings in her ears. She feels herself thrown sideways into her door, her seatbelt holding tight. Castle is thrown towards her, his belt also holding while he screams out in pain. The car skids sideways for a few feet, coming to a stop just short of a bank of trees that line a large parking lot, less than two miles from Castle's home.

"Rick!" she exclaims in his ear as he slumps slightly forward, grabbing his left arm. She wiggles her fingers, then arms and legs, quickly making sure that nothing is out of sorts. But her eyes stay focused on Castle's left arm that now hangs limply at his side.

"Rick, are you all right?!" she asks, loudly.

"My ears are fine, Kate," he offers with a pained smile, "but I believe my arm might be broken."

"Stay put – don't move," she tells him as she quickly exits the car on her side, and jogs around to his side to assess the damage. Fortunately, the oncoming car slammed into them about just inches behind Castle's seat and door. The back end of the driver's door is caved in sharply, explaining the injury to Castle's arm. That door isn't going to open, so she quickly moves around the front of the car, trying to get back to her side. She will have to open pull him out through her side, and that's not going to be pretty, she realizes.

Then it hits her – almost with the same force as the accident that has just befallen them.

The car is gone.

Whoever did this has taken off. She glances up and down the road quickly, now searching for the dark Porsche, cursing herself.

"Damn amateur," she grumbles aloud, realizing now that the tail on them was nothing more than a decoy, following carelessly to ensure it was visible. All of their focus had been on the tail and not the real threat that was waiting at the intersection ahead.

She glances in through the front windshield at Castle, who gives her a thumbs up with his good right hand, then reaches in her pockets, and throws her head back in disgust. Jogging back to the passenger side, she opens her door and reaches on the floor for her purse when she sees her phone partially under her seat, thrown out of her purse during the accident. Retrieving the phone, she quickly dials 911, as she glances at Castle.

"Are you okay, babe?" she asks, "besides the arm, I mean."

"I'm good, I'm good," he tells her, but she can see the pain in his eyes as she risks another glance at his arm. Now she can clearly see that it is hanging at an odd angle.

"That bad?" he winces between sharp breaths, noticing the face she has made as she stared at his arm.

"Yeah, it looks pretty –"

She stops in mid-sentence as the 911 operator responds.

"911, what is the nature of your call?"

"Car accident, Bridgeway and West Harbor," she replies after a quick glance at the side street sign. "Hit and run, we were just t-boned."

"Are there any injuries, ma'am?"

"Yes, the driver has sustained a broken arm," she replies officiously, years and years of training taking over in the midst of an emergency. "The car is immobilized. We are going to need an ambulance to take him to the nearest hospital."

"Dispatching now, ma'am. I am also sending a squad car there."

A few instructions later, and Kate hangs up, and puts the phone into her pocket and then leans across the seat, reaching for Castle's good arm.

"This is going to hurt, babe, but we have got to get you out of the car," she tells him. He simply nods his head, realizing that his respite is over. Steeling himself, he tries to swing his legs up and over the middle dash. No go – not enough room.

"Didn't you ever make out in a car, Castle?" she asks with a chuckle, trying to keep things light. "I figured you'd know your way around any car by now."

"Laugh it up, Magnum Beckett," he gives her, trying to match her levity and failing.

"C'mon Rick," she tells him. "Turn your back towards me – just a bit – that's it – a bit more –"

She starts to pull him, ignoring the yelp of pain that he releases, knowing she's got to get him out of here. Yeah, the car that hit them is gone, but who knows who – or what – is waiting for them here. It is clear that this was no 'accident'. That car was waiting in the intersection for them. Which means whoever is behind this knew where they were going this morning. Or at the very minimum, positioned themselves there at the instruction of the 'amateurs' who were tailing them.

"Dammit," she grouses to herself again, angry that she didn't see this coming, and angry at the cost her partner is paying.

Half a minute later, she is hoisting Castle to his feet outside the passenger side of the car. She can see the sweat on his brow from the exertion.

"Babe?" she asks.

"Seeing stars . . . I'm okay," he winces again. He straightens himself up, holding his arm in place, realizing that shock is probably taking over now. That's when he notices it.

"Who hit us?" he asks, glancing around. "Where'd they go?"

"That's the twenty thousand dollar question, babe," she replies. "They're gone. Hit and run. Probably set up by the folks tailing us."

"But why?" he wonders aloud.

"That one there – babe – is worth a lot more than twenty thousand dollars." She strokes his hear, kissing him lightly on the lips.

"Lean here," she tells him, pulling him back to the front side of the car, knowing he needs to take a bit off his legs. She holds him just enough to keep him steady.

"Damn, my left arm too," he complains.

"There's my writer," she smiles. "Ambulance will be here soon, babe."

"Marin General," he tells her.

"What?"

"That's where they will take us. Take me. Less than fifteen minutes away. Call Mike. Let him know. Put him on alert."

"On alert?" she asks, and then it hits her as well. The fact that neither their attacker nor their tail has stuck around hints that their intent was simply to slow them down, prevent them from getting to their destination.

"Let him know what has happened," he repeats. "He will know what to do."

"Okay," she replies, taking her phone out again. "And I need to call Jennifer. Need to warn her that things just got serious."

 _ **At the same time, about five miles away, on Highway 101 heading north**_

"No sir, they aren't going anywhere," Benny tells Donovan, speaking via bluetooth through his phone. "That car is shut down for the count, for now."

"Good, good," Donovan tells him. "You know what to do next." Donovan breaks the connection as Benny glances around checking the traffic as he travels northward.

"Where are we going now?" Randy asks him from the passenger seat.

"To the airstrip," Benny replies with a smile. "We've got a chopper to catch, and a compound to case out," he continues, already anxious at the thought of a night raid on the unsuspecting complex. Who knows, with a little luck, they might run into a bit of fun while they are at it. He smiles at the thought as he steps on the accelerator.

 _ **Same time, in a Parking Lot some thirty feet from Castle and Beckett on Bridgeway**_

"Yes, sir – they both seem to be okay. I think Castle has a broken arm. Other than that, he will live."

"And their tail, you have the license?"

"Yes, sir," William Crockett replies, spitting the toothpick out of his window and quickly replacing it with a new one. He scratches his bald, black head as he talks through the speakerphone in his car. "Texting it to you now," he tells him.

"Thank you, Willie," Sam Carlos answers. "And the car that struck them?"

"Pulled back and took off," Willie replies. "Nothing high speed, just did enough damage to stop them."

"Where are they now, Willie?"

"Well, the offending car, I don't know. I'm going to assume they are together by now. But the Porsche is on 101, traveling north right now," he tells his boss glancing at his iPad tablet that is mapping out the route. The tracer he placed on the Porsche in the middle of the night is working perfectly.

"Okay, that's good," Carlos tells him. "And Jennifer? She is all right?

"Junior Boy is following her," Willie responds, bringing a smile to Sam's face. Having one of his top soldiers on Jennifer gives him peace of mind.

"Okay, okay, that is nice work, Willie," Sam tells him.

"But I didn't do a damn thing to stop them, sir," Willie argues. "I could have gotten in front –"

"And had you stopped this, we wouldn't know who is behind all of this, Willie. As it is, they believe they have gotten away clean. They believe they are in the clear. That's going to cost them. Whatever their plan is, we now can track them and eventually predict what comes next."

"Then I get to go to work?" Willie asks, just a hint of menace leaking through.

"Oh yes, my friend," Sam smiles. "I promise you, you will have a chance to dance very, very soon." Carlos breaks the connection, and loses his smile quickly. Clearly, Castle, Kate and Jennifer have struck a nerve somewhere. And an angry nerve bites back – hard. Sam has done his homework, however, and he knows that his priority right now is protecting Jennifer. Jennifer can take her of herself – yes – but who knows who she is up against, and whether or not any of her squad-mates are involved. As for Castle? Again, he has done his homework, and he knows the security force that Castle has onsite at his complex. His homework has been thorough, and he flips through a few pages in front of him on his desk.

Mike Monroe. Lindy Matthews. Dawn Harrison. Colin Alexander. Jerry Flynn. Marcus Duncan.

He continues to flip through the pages, barely containing his admiration for the team that Castle has assembled. All ex-military. Most of them highly decorated. All with combat experience. And the Matthews woman, her file is mostly redacted. Whoever she is – whatever she is – he realizes that he likely has no one on his staff that he would put up against this woman.

No, whatever is going to happen out at Richard Castle's compound can be dealt with by his small army out there. Jennifer remains his top priority.

Still – friendships in his world mean more than anything – friendships are family. He picks up his phone, and places a call. He sits back, allowing one ring, then a second, and a third before the familiar voice answers.

"Beckett," she replies. "I take it this call is no coincidence, Sam?" At the mention of Carlos' name, Castle turns with an upraised eyebrow.

"Correct as usual, Katie," he replies casually. "I am making sure you are all right."

She considers his words for a few seconds, squeezing her lips together for a brief instant, before answering.

"I'm guessing you had us tailed as well," she finally tells him, as she places the call on speakerphone so that Castle can listen in. It is not a question.

"Of course," he answers as if it was the most natural thing in the world. In truth, for him, it is exactly that.

"Just keeping my friends safe," he continues.

"Well, Sam, I think you missed this time," she replies with a long breath. "We were ambushed – which I'm sure you already realize –"

"Yes," he replies, giving her that and nothing else.

"And Castle's arm is broken," she continues. "So I wouldn't exactly say that we are –"

"You're alive, Katie," he reminds her, in such a matter-of-fact tone. "That's what I care about. A few bumps and bruises will go away. I don't mind a hospital visit. It's funerals for friends that I try to prevent."

"So," she continues, "I am guessing you know who did this to us?"

"Who? No, I'm afraid not," he admits. "Where they are at this moment? Yes, that much I know." He glances at the flashing blip on his computer. Willie has sent him the link along with the license plate number.

"Right now they are . . ." He pauses for a moment, zooming in on their location. "Hmmm"

"What is it, Sam?" she asks.

"It appears they have stopped at the San Francisco Helicopter Tour facility."

"Off 101?" Castle winces, then turns his head as he hears the approaching sirens from the ambulance in the distance.

"Hello Mr. Castle," Carlos tells him, engagingly. "I'd ask how you are doing, but Kate has already filled me in."

"Yes, well, I'm more interested right now in knowing why they want a chopper," Castle replies.

"My first guess, Mr. Castle, is that if I were going to attack your complex out there, I'd want to get a lay of the land first."

Castle and Kate exchange a quick look, both thankful that she has already placed a call to Mike Monroe. Still, they will have to give him this new bit of information.

"Okay, copy that Sam," Kate finally tells him. "Can you do me a favor, please Sam? Can you –"

"I've already got eyes on Jennifer," he tells her. "She is sitting at the MUNI depot right now, and she is in good hands, I promise you."

"Thank you, Sam," she tells him, as Castle joins in, both realizing that he does –indeed – have eyes on their friend.

"Yes, thank you," Castle tells him as he slowly begins walking toward the ambulance that has just pulled up. In the distance, police sirens are singing out in the morning as the local police make their way to the accident site. The pain slowly begins to overtake him as the first paramedic reaches him. Seconds later, Kate is sitting beside him as he lies on a gurney in the large vehicle, answering question as best he can. Her mind, however, is far away as she thinks about the women at the complex. Women who believe that they are safe, right now. She realizes this is going to be a long day . . . and possibly an even longer night.


	21. Chapter 21

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 21**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 7:42 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

The evening fog rolled in around 5:55 this evening and it hangs on the modern complex like an old, comfortable overcoat. The heavens have favored Richard Castle this evening, providing the cover that he and his security team desire.

When he first began thinking about this campus, security was one of his first concerns. Not that he ever in his wildest dreams anticipated a potential raid by sex-trafficking gangsters. An errant and disgruntled husband or ex-boyfriend? Yeah, he had numerous nightmares about that scenario. That had been the extent of his imagination.

Mike Monroe, however, had other ideas.

When Castle had explained his plan, his vision for the Castles Complex and what he wanted to do for battered women, Monroe had been blown away – no, scratch that – he had been almost frightened by the sheer scope of things. A campus of roughly 80 acres, with multiple buildings housing one hundred families, with acreage for potential growth? An administrative building and on-campus groceries? All built upon alongside and into the hills adjacent to the Pacific Ocean in a major earthquake zone?

Where Richard Castle had seen nature and seclusion with a hint of adventure, his security chief saw a massive complex accessible by land, air and sea with numerous points of entry for the determined lunatic. Monroe worried – needlessly according to Castle – about defending the campus, protecting that many families spread out across twenty-five plus buildings.

Fortunately, Castle listened to his friend and allowed him to implement the very expensive failsafe option – literally a safe of sorts.

Each building has what appears to be, at a cursory glance, a central patio storage unit. The door to the attached storage unit opens to a small, four by eight space that extends the illusion of storage. The small trap door - via a slanted eight foot ladder - leads down into a large, twenty by twenty basement area, complete with its own air and heating unit, a couple of sofas and a refrigerator stocked with drinks. Mike had insisted on the addition built into the design specifications of each building – including the administration building, in the event things ever got dicey. It's not designed as a permanent or long-term dwelling.

Tonight, Richard Castle is grateful for the concerns of his somewhat paranoid security chief. Each of the families have been informed of the potential threat – and why. Each was given the option of leaving the facility for a few days, to be put up at an upscale hotel back in the city. An almost tearful Castle was stunned into silence when told that every woman – to a woman – opted to stay. A not insignificant number of them considered Pamela Hamilton as one of their own, and putting themselves into her place – it turned out to be a fairly easy decision. More than a handful had asked how they could help.

"You can help," Monroe had told the families assembled in the large auditorium of the administration building, "by staying underground. By ensuring that my team doesn't have to worry about you, about any collateral damage. I don't mean to be heartless, but I don't need any of you dead. And if we are correct – which I hope we are not, by the way – but if we are correct and there is an assault on our campus, our homes here – I need to know that I don't have to worry about any of you being above-ground. Because I promise you, once this starts, the kid gloves will be off."

"Where is Mr. Castle?" Pamela Hamilton herself had asked. The woman feels conflicted. On one hand, she is feeling guilty that her daughter is the reason that Castle and his team are engaged in this in the first place. She knows that had it not been for her, none of these women would be in danger. It's a foolish thought, certainly, but one she cannot shake.

On the other hand, however, she cannot deny that there is an anticipation that the people responsible for her daughter's kidnapping might be punished, might lead them to her daughter. She tries to push down that anticipation as well.

As for Mike Monroe, he cannot shake the anticipation of a fight he is anxious to have. Pamela Hamilton's plight has brought – front and center – a major hot button for the black man. He has long held that the authorities have done criminally little to halt the horrific issues facing Pamela Hamilton's daughter. The average person thinks it is some major issue in some remote Asian country, when in fact, it is in every state of the United States. It is widespread in Canada, in Europe. It is the invisible global issue that is spoken about in hushed terms. Even the designated name – sex trafficking – he considers to be a cowardly dodge of the issue.

"It's nothing short of forced sexual slavery," he had told Castle in private, after hearing Pamela's story during her admission process. "We hide behind cute, politically-correct terms like 'sex trafficking', when it is absolutely akin to what we, as blacks, went through in the 1700's and 1800's. For God's sake, Rick, a fucking civil war, the bloodiest war in our country's history, was fought over slavery and the free economy it afforded the South. We had blacks kidnapped from their country and put on ships to a strange place and forced into servitude. Now we have women kidnapped and put on beds and forced into servitude. Where is the outcry? Outside of churches, we rarely hear about it! And when we do, we sew up a few t-shirts and wear a few ribbons. We sweep it under the rugs, just thankful that it hasn't touched our daughters, our sons."

So yeah, Mike Monroe is looking forward to tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Or whenever these people show up. They can't come soon enough.

 _ **Earlier this morning – 10:03 a.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Mike and Lindy glance upward, watching the chopper buzzing high overhead. Fortunately, Kate had called back a second time, warning him that they may get company from overhead. She quickly explained the morning's happenings. Monroe, once satisfied that Castle was okay, had immediately translated into preparation mode. In this case, he means to give a misdirection to their pending raiding party.

Both Mike and Lindy realize their 'visitors' want to get a layout of the place – the campus, the surroundings. They are looking for the best way in, and for the size and scope of whatever security force is visible. He's going to give them some false information.

He ensures that Lindy and Dawn are out on the perimeter walking in plain sight. He wants them visible. They will be mistaken for residents of the complex out for a walk. Lindy plays her role to the hilt, actually looking upward and waving excitedly at the passing aircraft.

Mike has asked Samantha to go for a walk with Colin Alexander outside in the open. He's looking to give the impression that there are very few men on the campus. That would make sense, given that these are battered women here. There's no need in letting them know about Jerry or Marcus or the others. Let them think that the security is light.

He smiles as he watches the chopper pass overhead. His smile broadens as he considers that Lindy and Dawn can probably handle anything these folks with throw at them, one on one. And he will take Lindy against two or three antagonists any day of the week.

"Yeah, we'll be all right," he muses to himself.

Marcus is inside on the phone, ensuring that the night crew will come in an hour early – at 5pm, ensuring they have a double force. Then he and Jerry and Dawn will take the first shift until around 2pm, allowing Mike, Lindy and Colin a few hours of shut eye. At 2pm, they will switch. Everyone will be awake by 5pm, giving everyone a few hours of combat sleep before what Mike has told them will be a long and potentially violent night.

 _ **At the same time earlier this morning – overhead in the Helicopter over the campus**_

"Look Benny, check it out," Danny Sullivan announces into the headset, pointing down at the ground below. "Looks pretty light down there."

"Yeah, it does," Benny agrees, unable to shake a feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Something doesn't feel right, though."

"What's the problem?" the pilot asks him. "Things look pretty normal to me."

"No men," Benny replies quickly. "Well, I saw the one black dude. That's it. Where are the men?"

"Benny. Benny, this is a supposedly a . . . hell, what do you call it . . . a refuge for battered women," Danny replies. It makes perfect sense to him.

"Why in the hell would you expect to see a lot of men down there?" he continues. "Somebody beats up your sister, your mother, your girlfriend, your wife - do you think either of them want to see a bunch of guys hanging around?"

"Maybe you're right," Benny replies thoughtfully. That would make sense. He slowly smiles as his mind begins to process the likely outcomes from a raid on a minimal security campus like what he sees below. The fifteen or so men that Donovan has assigned to accompany him might end up to be overkill. Then again, if they find five or ten juicy ones down there that fit the profile, they will probably be necessary after all. It probably won't take more than a few of them to deal with the security force down there.

 _ **Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 4:33 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

"Rick. Wake up Rick."

Kate Beckett is very careful, shaking him ever so lightly. She doesn't want to jar him too much. Massive dosages of painkillers or not, she knows he is in a lot of pain. The doctors immobilized his arm in this temporary cast and sling that she currently inspects. Their short-term plan was detailed surgery where they would insert a rod inside his damaged arm, and place an external apparatus with four screws through the arm holding it in place. That turned out, however, to be the long-term plan, as Castle would not allow them to put him under. Not yet – not today – knowing what is likely coming at them today, tonight, tomorrow.

Groggy and in pain, he comes alert far more quickly and easily than she would have imagined.

" _Of course he would,"_ she corrects herself. _"It's probably the pain that is reminding him what has happened, what is happening."_

"I'm here, I'm awake," he tells her quickly, blinking rapidly, willing himself awake and alert.

"Is it time?" he asks.

"It's time to wake up, get ready, if that's what you're asking," she tells him. "There's not exactly a scheduled clock for something like this." She smiles, attempting to bring levity to the situation.

"No, I suppose there isn't," he agrees. "Our women, our families here . . . are they –"

"They're safe, babe," she finishes for him. "Mike briefed them earlier today. Remember? We told you before you fell asleep."

"Passed out, you mean," he half smiles.

"I was being kind," she chuckles. He smiles with her, now remembering their conversation with Mike earlier, now remembering how each woman has elected to stay.

"They do realize that there is no shame in running, in getting out of here, don't they?" he asks. "I mean, actually it is the smartest decision they can make."

"They are staying, Castle," she tells him, and he notes the determination in her eyes. "They have chosen to stay. For some of them, babe – this is their home. For the next five to six months, this is home. This is where they feel safe."

"And they're okay with this?" he asks again, still finding it hard to believe.

"I think, Rick, that they are okay with Mike, with Lindy and Marcus," she admits, the admiration clear in her tone. "With Colin and Dawn and Jerry and Michael and Murph. I mean, really, you couldn't have gotten a more intimidating crew if you tried."

"They're all nice people, too," he muses aloud in wonder.

"I know babe, I know," she agrees. "But dangerous, too."

"Thank God for that!" he says with a wince, forgetting to keep his arm immobile. She helps him stand, and he takes a few extra seconds to gather himself.

"So, what now?"

"The night unit has already arrived, a few minutes early," she tells him. They are with Mike now, getting the full briefing. Mike has us on lock-down all night."

It hits him suddenly, and his eyes grow wide with fear. She knows what he is thinking, she'd already prepared for this while he was out.

"We already have her here, babe," she says softly, hugging him gently. "She's down in the bunker here in the admin building with Samantha. Went and picked her up from school early, personally. She's fine, Rick."

He nods his head in relief, thankful that she has taken care of Alexis while he was sleeping / knocked out. His thoughts immediately turn to the women of his campus.

"What about all of our women who are at work, who need to come back, need a place to –"

"We have them all, Castle. Jennifer called in a few favors with a couple of detectives she trusts – which by the way wasn't many – maybe three tops. But they spent the afternoon canvasing the city area picking up some of our working women. Those that had their own transportation were given personal leave to get out early – something about a call from a police officer that kind of greased the wheels," she smiles.

"Okay, okay," he manages, and she holds on tighter helping him. The painkillers are doing their job too well, keeping him a bit groggy. No matter, before nightfall, she will put him downstairs with Samantha and Alexis and the others. A knock on the door interrupts them.

A second knock and the door cracks.

"Everyone decent?" Jennifer Blackard chuckles, staying out of sight.

"No, he's making violent love to me as we speak," Kate calls out, stifling her laughter.

"Doesn't sound very passionate to me," Jennifer muses as she walks in.

"Hey, it could have been true!" Castle argues, unsuccessfully.

"Not _that_ quietly," Jennifer tells him. "Not from what I have heard."

"Hey!" he exclaims again, this time with false anger directed at Kate. "I thought we said what happens in Big Tex stays in Big Tex."

"Big Tex?" Jennifer asks, now confused.

"Our bed," Kate tell her, now fully embarrassed as her face blushes a dark red. She tries to intervene and steer the conversation away to something new, but she is too late.

"You name your bed?" Jennifer asks with shock.

"You don't?" Castle asks, just as shocked.

"The meds, Jen," Kate whispers to her. "Don't ask."

"Oh, believe me, there is going to be plenty of asking, you can believe that, sister," Jennifer tells her. "No way are you getting off the hook on this one," she continues, now unable to hold the growing smile from her face.

"Focus people!" Kate warns, trying to be as serious as possible, and almost making it. "We don't know what is coming for us – maybe as soon as tonight."

"Right, right, right," Jennifer agrees, still smiling. She glances at a still groggy Castle who rewards her with a quick eyebrow wiggle, mouthing the words "I'll tell you later."

He receives a quick elbow to his good arm in return from Kate, as she leads him out of the room and toward the open area of the admin building. She glances at her watch. It is a couple of minutes before five o'clock. She nods her head, just a gut feeling telling her that tonight is going to be the night.

 _ **Tuesday Night, February 21, 2012 – 7:51 p.m. – Back to the Present time – The Compound in Sausalito**_

"Damn fog," Nick Farros grumbles, making his way toward the large brick structure, topped by an eight foot wrought iron fence. "Can barely see ten feet in front of me."

"The fog is our friend, tonight, Nick," his partner Viktor Markovic whispers, angry at the constant sound of leaves and branches crumbling underneath their feet. Yeah, the fog is going to provide cover in the darkness here, but the damn terrain is going to give them away.

"Quiet!" Benny hisses into his mouthpiece wrapped around his head. "We are at T-minus 9 minutes, and I want this to go by the book. Remember – find the writer, eliminate him. Look for blondes, make sure they look young. Drinking age is spot on. Those are snatch and grabs. Do not hurt the goods. Anyone else you see, eliminate them as well. We will have about twenty minutes, tops to get in, do our business, and get out. Everyone got it?"

"Roger"

"Roger"

"Affirmative"

The answers come in from his small army of fifteen hardened mercenaries. This is going to be easy – once they get to the buildings that is. Minimal security, lots of damsels in distress. Benny smiles as he lays the ten foot ladder against the tall fence structure on the west side of the campus. His strike force is in position at eight different locations, two men at each location. He knows each of them are setting their climbing ladders in place as well. He glances at the sign on the fence – a sign that is repeated along the length of the fence roughly every thirty feet or so.

NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

Benny chuckles to himself. "Yeah, shot on sight my ass. Nice scare tactic for a place with crappy security."

He glances upward to the sky, basking in the dark, moonless night, with the predictable fog providing additional cover. It's a good omen, a good sign. He glances at his watch again. Seven minutes and counting.

In the darkness and fog that he embraces as an ally, he does not notice – he doesn't see or hear – the tall black man, dressed completely in black who follows some fifty yards behind.

At the same time, back in San Francisco, Sam Carlos reads a text on his phone and smiles dimly. He immediately pulls up a contact and begins typing a text of his own.

 _SAM: Kate – game time. You've got visitors on your campus borders._

 **A/N:** My thoughts and prayers are with families in Paris tonight. Man's cruelty to mankind exceeds anything any of us can dream up.


	22. Chapter 22

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 22**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 7:58 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Kate Beckett has no visible reaction as she reads the text on her phone from her old Stanford friend. She glances at her watch before typing out her reply.

 _KATE: I know, Sam. We've got eyes on them already._

Less than half a minute later, she receives his reply message.

 _SAM: Okay, looks like you have things covered._

She simply nods her head this time as she reads reply and types her response.

 _KATE: Think so. Still – thanks._

She puts her phone away, and checks her weapon, and repositions her earpiece. Game time, indeed. She closes her eyes for a brief instant, willing herself into an easy, calm state. She smiles as she opens her eyes. She is ready. She feels the vibration on her hip, and retrieves her phone once more.

 _SAM: By the way, be aware that I have two operatives there, trailing them._

Her response to him is immediate. She can't afford to babysit anyone right now.

 _KATE: You may want to pull them out, Sam. Can't guarantee their safety._

Sam Carlos laughs out loud as he reads the incoming text from Kate Beckett. He shakes his head as he chuckles. If only she knew.

"Oh Kate, you have nothing to worry about on that front," he says aloud to himself as he types out one final message before putting his phone away for good.

 _SAM: Trust me. I was just giving you a heads up so you don't walk into their line of fire. Stay safe._

Kate smiles at the almost arrogant confidence of her old friend. For not the first time in the past few days she once again is thankful that she is not on the wrong side of Sam Carlos. Those thoughts are tempered by the realization that – in reality – she _ought_ to be on the wrong side of the man, because they are absolutely on different sides of . . . well, everything. Different mindset, different paths, different visions. She's on one side of the law and justice. He's on the other side of the law, living his own type of justice. It's only a deep friendship that allows both of them to look beyond, move past those differences.

She chuckles knowing that most people in their mutual circles – both of theirs – would not understand this détente that exists between the two old friends. Jennifer Blackard feels the same, although Kate knows that, despite everything, Sam and Jennifer are fighting an attraction, fighting a history, fighting a pull that urges them to move closer.

She recognizes, too, that until a few months ago, the same could be said for Richard Castle and herself.

Kate brushes those thoughts away as whispers into her mouthpiece to the security team connected to her.

"I'm on the ground at West 2," she tells the team. "Visual confirmed."

"On the ground, West 5," she hears Colin whisper. "Visual confirmed."

Monroe smiles, as he listens to his team checking in, and imagining the relatively small force – in his mind – that stands at the fences ready to breach the campus. Lulled into a false sense of superiority, they evidently haven't bothered to search for surveillance devices. The motion sensors that cover movement within twenty yards of the fence picked them up minutes ago, activating the night-vision video surveillance cameras. From the control center in the administrative building, Paul Jeffries can see the perpetrators as clear as a mid-afternoon day. Eight of the twenty-four cameras have activated, displaying two men at each point.

"Okay, I count a total of sixteen bodies," Paul tells the team at large, relaying to them what he sees in the monitors spread before him. He silently offers a prayer of thanks that Castle – or Monroe, whichever – had the foresight to install this command center. He makes a mental note to apologize to Castle for all of the snickers of doubt that he has had over the months sitting behind this same desk, watching these same monitors.

"That's sixteen. Just located two more at North 5," Paul tells the team. He glances over to the monitor on his desk, his eyes drawn to the small icon on the lower right side of his screen, indicating that all of the visuals spread out before him are being recorded. Mike Monroe is expecting casualties – and not on his end – and he wants visual confirmation that, in fact, the campus was being attacked in a premeditated and coordinated fashion.

"Affirmative," Marcus replies softly into his mouthpiece. "I've got them."

All of his operatives are now in the field, setting up a perimeter shielding access from the fences to the buildings in the middle of the campus. All, save Lindy Matthews, that is. Lindy has remained at the administration building, at Monroe's request.

" _Just in case someone makes it to the admin area,"_ Monroe had told the team earlier this afternoon during the planning session. Monroe considers her his most valuable asset in an assault like this, and wants her close to the innocents on the campus. He knows that in close-quarter hand-to-hand combat, she is the best he has. The best he has ever known.

 _ **Downstairs in the bunker of the Administration Building at the Castles in Sausalito**_

Richard Castle sits on the small sofa, alternately sulking at being left out of the impending carnage upstairs and – at the same time – just wanting another few hours of unconsciousness to avoid the searing pain he now feels in the arm.

Alexis senses the conflict in her father, long understanding his reflective moods.

"Dad, thanks for staying down here with us," his daughter says, offering her father a small thread to mend what she knows is a bruised ego to go with the broken arm. Castle, however, also knows his daughter all too well. Enough to know – and appreciate – what the young woman is attempting to do.

"Thank you, pumpkin," he winces between clinched teeth, "but we both know I was sent to my room," he says with a sad smile.

"Richard, whining does not become you," Dr. Samantha Peraza tells him, evenly. "The entire reason you brought Mr. Monroe and his team onboard in the first place is because they have a particular mindset – and skillset – that you do not have. There is no shame in such foresight. Now buck up, for crying out loud. We have wolves at our door. Do you think I'd rather have you up there in that fight or the people you have on staff to handle such instances?"

Castle smiles at both women – who, each in their own way, address the conflict warring inside the writer-philanthropist and would-be-adventurer. He listens in the earpiece that Mike Monroe provided for him – damn the security guard for refusing to include a mouthpiece for him – trying to visualize in his mind what is happening upstairs.

 _ **At the South Fence Perimeter at the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Phil and Pete Anders move briskly away from the fence toward the trees lining the perimeter. They've just cleared the fence and are moving at a quick pace, listening to the instructions and status updates in their earpieces. It sounds like everyone has gotten over the large and imposing wrought iron structure, and is – like the two of them – on their way to the buildings.

Benny had given the all clear once Raquel had given him the news that Castle had not left the campus. Raquel sits down the road from the main entrance, her sole responsibility being to let Benny know if Castle leaves the premises. There was always the chance that the writer would have gone home early. Had that been the case, then they would have aborted the mission. They could have killed the man this afternoon, and his girlfriend with him. But for whatever reasons that he has not shared with him, Donovan wants Castle killed here, at this complex he built. Donovan also wants a few new additions to his . . . well, he called it his stable. That's not exactly how Benny would refer to it, but so be it.

Donovan wants both Castle and his girlfriend dead. Apparently both have gotten too close to the flame. Well, moths get burned. That will be easy. A writer and his squeeze? Please. Almost too easy.

The women? That's just a bonus. It appears to Benny that Donovan is using this as an opportunity to kill multiple birds with one swing of a very large stone.

The Anders brothers – twins transplanted from the bright streets of Las Vegas – make their way into the cover of the trees. Each sports a small handgun with a silencer. Both are highly experienced in making 'calls' on various 'clients'. Their skills are very particular and honed with years of practice. But they are clearly out of the element walking through the wooded coverage of the complex.

"You get one warning," a female voice calls out to them. "Turn around and go back."

"What the f-" Phil exclaims. They expected light resistance, sure, but . . . a woman? Really? That's the best they could throw at them?

He pays a heavy price for his outdated and sexist overconfidence. He offers one shot into the dense area he thinks the voice came from.

"That should send her running," he half chuckles as his younger brother comes alongside him. He doesn't hear or see the whistling projectile that enters just above the bridge of his nose. The force knocks him backward into the dead leaves lining the forest bed.

"Phil?!" Pete cries out in alarm, as he gazes down at his older brother, staring at the pointed object that sticks out of his forehead. Immediately crouching in a defensive position, the terror rising from his stomach into his mouth, warm bile threatening to spew out.

"Phil is down!" he yells into his mouthpiece. "I repeat, Phil is –"

Dawn Harrison saves him the effort of continuing his warning with a second headshot that whizzes through the air, instantly silencing the hood. She calmly walks toward the fallen men, and reaches down and takes the mouthpiece from Pete Anders' lifeless head and lips.

"Phil is down, boys," she says into the mouthpiece, holding it in front of her lips. "His partner isn't doing much better either," she tells them calmly. After a second of silence, allowing that to settle in with her listeners, she smiles darkly.

"Come play with me," she adds almost as an afterthought, purring into the ears of the attackers.

Mike's instructions to the team earlier today were very clear.

" _We aren't sure of the size of the force coming after us, but we have to assume they will have some form of communication. Assaulting a territory this large, they will have some type of coordinated effort. The first person we disarm – it doesn't matter which of us does it – the first person we disarm, look for a communications interface. We will want to install a little fear, a little doubt into these men."_

" _What message do you want us to give them?"_ Marcus had asked.

" _Keep it simple,"_ Mike had replied. _"Nothing elaborate. Typical guerilla tactics. You will know what to say."_

Dawn smiles, satisfied as she drops the headset back to the ground between the two lifeless bodies. She knows the impact the message will have on the raiding party. She knows the additional oomph behind the message when they hear it delivered by a woman. Mike had intentionally held the majority of the males in the security force inside the admin building once he realized they were being scoped out. These men have probably come here expecting little resistance along with weak and pleading women. To hear that one of those 'weak and pleading' women has taken out not one, but two of their force?

She smiles as she touches her mouthpiece, relaying the information to the rest of the security team.

"Dawn at South 3," she begins. "Two down. I repeat, two down. Message sent. They know we're here."

Each of the security force replies with a kind of mental nod toward Dawn Harrison, and a renewed sense of urgency of their own. Mike Monroe makes a mental note of his own. Sixteen men, two down. Fourteen to go.

 _ **Now 8:05 p.m. – At the Western fence of the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Benny exchanges a worried glance with Randy, who kneels crouched beside him. Both men dropped lower, taking cover at the words of the woman in their ears. He idly wonders about the women he witnessed walking the campus earlier from his vantage point in the skies during their reconnaissance, now realizing that those were not helpless battered women walking the campus. Those were part of the security force, and evidently they are more than capable.

"All parties – new instructions," he whispers into his headset. "Kill anyone you engage with outside one of the buildings. Assume anyone outside is part of their security."

No, they won't make the same mistake poor Phil and Pete made. He suppresses a shudder, and Randy is thinking the same thing. Five minutes into this, and they've already lost two men. Two of their better and more fearsome men.

"I'm not gonna lie, Benny. I'm concerned about anyone – man or woman – who can take out the Anders brothers," Randy whispers.

"I am too, Randy. Let's just not make the same mistake," Benny tells him. "Now look sharp, dammit, and stay focused."

 _ **Still 8:04, At the Eastern Fence at the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Nick Farros and Viktor Markovic both have taken the same stance, the same protective and defensive postures as their partners on the opposite side of the complex. They were promised an easy payday, a simple snatch and grab, with a few permanent knockouts along the way. But deadly force response? That wasn't even a consideration.

"Look sharp, Vicktor," Nick tells his long-time Russian friend. The two have been through a number of battles together on the European front, and are recent additions to Donovan's show of force.

"You also," Markovic replies, his eyes scanning the trees in the distance, the fog clearly obstructing any view. "This is starting to look like a bad idea."

"Stay focused, friend," Nick tells the man. "We do our job, we get paid, and we get the hell out of Dodge."

"Dodge?" Markovic asks. The Russian is still learning – and struggling with – certain American terminologies.

"Never mind," Nick whispers with a smile. "It just means we get out of here alive and go home."

"Home sounds good," his friend admits, trying desperately to peer through the heavy white mist that coats the campus grounds. He feels like he is on the set of one of the Hollywood B-movies that Nick has made him watch over the years.

"Sure does," Nick agrees. "I didn't come all this way out here just to die."

The gravelly voice that greets the men stirs a deep-set fear that neither has felt in years, since their time on the European front.

"Actually gentlemen – that is exactly what you have done," the voice warns.

Both men try to drop lower toward the ground without actually falling prone, trying to locate the voice. The fog, however, is playing tricks on their senses, masking not only their sight but their ability to locate their antagonist as well. Viktor risks a couple of warning shots from his short assault rifle, spitting flames into the night soup.

Neither sees the lithe figure falling – in a controlled jump – from the tree branches above. Marcus lands between both men, his long sword held skyward during his fall. As he lands on the ground, he executes a perfect pirouette, his sword leading the circular motion. Blood flies as gurgling sounds are heard from both men who struggle to speak – to breathe – after the slashing motion severs nerves, blood vessels and vocal chords in their throats.

Their last breaths – frightening gurgling sounds ushering their final seconds on earth – are heard by all of the other members of their attack force.

Benny has had enough. He shouts into his mouthpiece at his remaining force.

"Full speed ahead – now!" he screams out, and utters a shout as he rises out of his defensive crouch and sprints now, full speed, toward the buildings he knows are in the distance, but cannot see because of the fog. Failure is not an option for a man like Donovan. It no longer matters if their sneak peek from earlier has turned out to be horrifically wrong. Fail tonight and that is the least of his problems.

"Raquel, send the back up! Now!" Benny yells as he runs. "And cut the lights!"

Throughout the campus, from all sides now, the onrush of the remaining dozen intruders is heard – now no longer concerned with stealth. They run forward, in attack mode, some firing their weapons into the mist that hides their enemy.

From the command center, Paul Jeffries sees the onrushing small cadre and quickly begins issuing directions to the security team of the complex. One by one, men begin to fall. Some fall from a gunshot. Some from a flying knife. A garrote ends the life of another.

Suddenly, the lights for the entire campus are extinguished, as one element of Benny's assault blueprint finally works according to plan. Having found the power lines, Barry Kaufman, or Barry K as he is called, cuts the line, immediately leveling the playing field. He jumps back into the back-up car off campus, as it guns to life, heading up the road for the campus.

The monitors in front of Paul Jeffries go dark, panicking the man for a moment.

Jeffries stumbles out of his chair, and uses the light from his cell phone to find his way to the door, and jogs down the hallway. Reaching the telecom closet, he goes inside and powers up the generator. This will give power to the admin building – including the bunker below, the kitchen area with three large commercial refrigerators and a walk-in freezer, and the command center.

The rest of the campus, however, remains in darkness.

Suddenly, a large car barrels up the road leading to the front gate. The speeding vehicle launches through the front security gate leading onto the campus, filled with Benny's back-up force. Lindy Matthews – from the front window of the administrative building, watches as four men pour out of the vehicle, brandishing impressive weapons that she knows mask their true bravery – or lack thereof. The men make a beeline for the administrative building.

"Cut the lights, Paul," she suddenly hisses into her mouthpiece. She wants the generator off. She is comfortable in the darkness. Right now, the darkness, the fog – they are allies. They are part of the protective covering they are counting on. She knows from experience that – more often than not – power is cut at the attacked location not because the assaulters are comfortable in darkness but more out of their assumption that the victims are not. Well, she is no victim, and she is perfectly comfortable in the blackness that envelopes them.

She checks the action on her handgun, then shoulders it, changing her mind. She walks over – in the darkness – to the wall. Seconds later, she detaches the baseball bat from its place hanging on the wall. The bat is one of Richard Castle's more cherished possessions – autographed by the entire New York Yankees 2009 team, from their last World Series championship team.

Half a minute later she raises the window leading out to the courtyard behind the administrative building and climbs through. On the ground, she crouches, holding the bat firmly in one hand, and moves stealthily around the back of the building at a jog from her crouched position – her eyes already adjusted to the darkness outside. Dressed in black, with her hair covered by a small beanie, she blends in completely with the darkness.

Circling the building, she sees the four frustrated men search in vain for a way into the locked and fortified building. Shatterproof windows, locked from the inside are virtually impregnable, save a bomb blast. The large door is actually a steel door, with a wood covering, purely for aesthetics. No, these men are not getting inside. Her goal now is to ensure they don't leave the grounds.

Lindy Matthews almost smiles at the favorable odds the night has graced her with as she approaches the unsuspecting intruders.

 **A/N:** I know this is a violent chapter, and given the recent happenings in France, I almost didn't post this for another few days. But in some way, some form, we have to do what we can. I write. And I pray. I've been praying, and so I will continue writing.

Please forgive me, but two days have passed since the attack on Paris. Time goes on, memories of things half a world away fade as we fall back into our daily routine. I ask that we not do that. For once, let us stay the course we began less than 48 hours ago, when the world was united not just against a common enemy, but united in simple love for our fellow man and woman. Let us continue to keep our brothers and sisters in Paris in our thoughts, long after the news reporters have found new things to cover. Families have been shattered. Remember, we all are just one midnight phone call away from having our entire worlds turned inside out.


	23. Chapter 23

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 23**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 8:08 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

In the hidden bunker beneath her fourplex building, Pamela Hamilton sits nervously on the small sofa, surrounded by three other women from their respective residences in this building. The lights flickered first, then went out completely about four minutes ago. The women had been warned that a power outage was possible, but not probable. So the fact that they have lost power has everyone on edge. Forget the lights. It's the lack of air conditioning. It's only been minutes, but it is already feeling stale and confined in the small bunker, which is getting smaller with each passing moment.

"Mr. Monroe said that the power wouldn't go out," an agitated Wendy Abshire wonders aloud, voicing the concern that each of the women in the bunker are thinking about.

"No," Georgia Martins corrects her. "He said that it was unlikely. I think the term he used was possible, but not probable," she continues.

"Semantics," Brenda Johnson exclaims. "The fact is – the power is out. Which means that something has gone wrong up there. I'm telling you, we're sitting ducks if we stay down here."

"And I'm telling you, no we aren't," Georgia replies testily. "Mr. Monroe was very clear that no one even knows about these bunkers, and that they aren't even in the building schematics that would be available to someone."

"Well, _Mr._ Monroe was wrong about the power, so who is to say he isn't wrong about these bunkers, too," Brenda responds, her voice rising.

"Do you want to go outside and check?" Pamela interjects. She has been quiet up to this point. She feels responsible for all of this. Of course it isn't her fault. She knows this. But she also knows that were she not here at the Castles, then this wouldn't be happening right now.

The silence that greets her question is all she needs.

"I didn't think so," she continues. "Look, none of us like this – most of all me because I feel this is all my fault –"

"It's not your fault, Pamela, we've been through –"

"It's kind of you to say, Georgia," Hamilton tells her. Georgia has become a friend in the past few days. Each of the women eventually begin bonding with one or more other women. For Pamela, it was the Martins woman who lives upstairs on the floor above her.

"It doesn't matter. They are fighting for us up there. None of us are going upstairs until one of Mr. Castle's security team comes and gets us. I've put all of us into this mess, and I won't let any of you go get killed because of me."

 _ **On the Campus grounds, 8:08 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

"We are getting our asses handed to us, Benny!" screams Frank Abrams. Frank is in full retreat, having watched a tall and sinfully-too-large black man literally snap the neck of Cory Thompson, and Thompson was no small man himself. At 6'1 and 220 pounds, Thompson resembled an NFL free safety, and was built lean but hard.

Yes, Frank feels bad for running away like this, but dammit, this was supposed to be an easy gig. He didn't sign up for some full-fledged damn war. None of them did. It's not a job out here anymore. This has become a battlefield, and they are getting slaughtered.

" _Get in, get out, get laid and get paid!"_ Benny had told the crew. And Benny had never steered Frank wrong before, so there was no reason to doubt him this evening. But clearly Benny was wrong, was misinformed, about a lot of things. Right now, the fight or flight mechanism is in full force for Frank Abrams, who has opted for the latter.

The scream he hears from some thirty yards away jars him to his core, pushing his legs faster. The burn in his thighs blisters him as he prays and wills them to keep moving, one in front of the other. Fifty more feet and he is free. He sees the fence peering through the foggy mist, almost taunting him. He never sees the thin wire stretched between the two trees in front of him. The last thing he remembers is a stinging sensation in his neck before everything goes black.

 _ **Back at the Administration Building, 8:08 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Lindy Matthew is trying hard to stifle a snicker as she watches the hapless crew beat on the door, trying to bust their way in. One other attacker has already tried the window about ten feet away, and has moved back to the door step. All attempts at stealth abandoned, the four men are frantically and noisily searching for a way in.

" _Not the brightest bunch,"_ she thinks to herself, as she draws closer.

She stays low, using the ground cover of the fog for a blanket, her right hand loosening her grip on the baseball bat just slightly. She wiggles her wrist, allowing the bat to rotate freely before tightening her grip one final time. She breathes in the cool misty air and sets her sights on her first target.

She reaches the first man and stays low to the ground, swinging hard for his right knee, which explodes with a sickening thud. The man screams as he leg shatters, allowing gravity to do its work. His partners from the car have barely turned their heads to react when Lindy completes the home run swing and launches herself upward, now swinging the bat with a vicious golf uppercut, breaking the next man's jaw and snapping his neck. She lands on her feet at the end of her swing and immediately initiates a hard, ninety degree spin in a clockwise motion, her arm – and the bat – extended. Her weapon smashes into the face of the third man. His nose collapses and his upper row of teeth lose their bearings as he crumples backward into the door frame

The final man – Barry K as he is known – has raised his arms in surrender. He wants no part of this warrior dressed in black and painted in blackface. Lindy allows the bat to drop to her side, and Barry K offers the heavens a prayer of thanks, grateful for the undeserved reprieve. She, however, in the same motion as the bat drops, switches the bat to her left hand, and with her now free right hand, reaches into her shoulder holster and retrieves her handgun. She points it at Barry K's head. He never hears the explosion from the gun that ends his life.

Screams echo across the front patio area where four men now lie – two of them very dead. She glances down at her third victim and – without a second glance – steps over him as she casually puts a bullet in his brain as she walks over to the first victim, who screams incessantly.

"Bitch broke my leg!" he cries, tears of pain streaming down his face. His eyes suddenly enlarge in terror as he sees the weapon now pointed at his head. A single gunshot is heard, and Lindy Matthews walks away, without a backward glance at the carnage behind her, now jogging around the building and toward the wooded area beyond the residence homes, searching for anyone who might have been unlucky enough to make it through the gauntlet that Mike had set up as a welcoming party. She knows the where the team members should be, based upon the breaches that she watched on the monitors with Jeffries. She immediately makes a beeline for the area she suspects Mike Monroe will be defending.

 _ **On the Campus Grounds, 8:10 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

The scattered gunshots that Benny hears do not give him any comfort. He knows the sound of a successful attack, with coordinated gunfire, a beautiful choir that cannot be described. Tonight, that is not what he hears. No, tonight he hears undisciplined panic in his ranks. He hears it in their voices that he knows are now in full retreat. He hears it in the gasps of dying men – a sound he knows only too well, but has always been on the delivering end.

Randy, thankfully, is still with him. He has no idea how many others are still even alive, and is struggling to comprehend how all of this is the work of one woman. Yet there is no doubt that it was clearly a woman's voice earlier – Dawn's voice – issuing the challenge to them. In the confusion now, he and Randy have lost their direction somewhat, and have ventured off their intended path. Coming across Rudy and Lorenzo, lying dead with single gunshot wounds in their foreheads was enough to change his mind. Screw Donovan. They are getting slaughtered out here – and for what? So Donovan can get a few more of his damn playmates? They could have killed the writer and his bitch girlfriend earlier – but no – Donovan got greedy. And now God only knows how many of Benny's men are dead because of it.

He and Randy are making good time back toward what they hope is the perimeter fence. Of course, arriving at a different spot than they breached from just minutes earlier is problematic. As in they have no ladder. How they are going to navigate that beast is a huge question mark. But they will worry about that when they get there. Right now – the goal is just to get there.

 _ **Elsewhere on the Castle Grounds – 8:10 p.m. – At the Castles Complex in Sausalito**_

Dawn Harrison sits upright on the ground, focused on the task at hand. That task, for now, is staying in the game. Her black shirt is off, and she shivers in the cold mist, now wearing only light black jeans and a black sports bra. Her shirt is now wrapped in her hands as she creates a make-shift bandage for her leg, which is bleeding more than she would care to see.

In the massive confusion as Benny's force began their helter-skelter, undisciplined retreat, men began firing their weapons in any direction. It's just bad luck that one of those errant rounds found its way into her right thigh.

Tightening the shirt around her leg, she manages to stand, and take a few steps.

" _Manageable, but vulnerable,"_ she thinks to herself, quickly making the battlefield decision. She reaches for her headset, fighting back any wincing or wobble in her voice.

"This is Dawn. I'm hit. Leg. Stable but losing blood," she tells the team at large.

"I'm on my way," Colin Alexander states immediately. "I've got your coordinates," he tells her directly, glancing at her location. Each of them carries military-grade GPS, which locates any of them within a few feet.

"I'm hit as well," Mike Monroe says suddenly, he as well the victim of crossfire. "Errant fire – don't think they know I'm hit."

"On my way," Lindy Matthews exclaims, and it is clear that she is running. She is in full sprint toward the coordinates shown for Monroe. "How bad?"

"Just a shoulder shot. Got it covered, Lindy," he tells her – and the group.

"And I've got you covered," she tells him, ignoring anything else he has to say. It's no surprise to anyone, as all know how close Lindy and Mike have become in the past six or so months. The two knew each other – very well in fact – from earlier military deployments. Their new . . . relationship . . . didn't come about until recently, though.

Meanwhile, Kate Beckett has spotted a rapidly retreating Benny and Randy, quickly realizing they are headed for the presumed safety of the perimeter fence. How they plan on getting over the fence is something she briefly wonders about, but immediately pushes the thought out of her head.

"Stay focused," she tells herself, as she quickly begins tracking the men, following behind them.

The fence comes into view, and Kate is treated with a laughable sight. Both men have reached the fence, and Randy has hoisted Benny on his shoulders, with Benny reaching vainly for the top of the fence. The humor of the moment fades quickly as Kate hears rustling behind her. Pivoting with her weapon raised, she lifts the barrel skyward when she sees the camouflaged face of her friend.

"Geesh Jen, give me a heart attack!" she whispers, putting her finger up to her mouth indicating the detective should remain quiet. Blackard looks into the distance, and sees the comical sight playing out some twenty-five yards in front of them.

Detective Jennifer Blackard is the one person out here in Mike Monroe's game plan who operates at a disadvantage. She's a cop. She can't just see the bad guy and shoot first. She has to identify herself. Even on a battlefield such as this, where such a necessity can get one killed.

Further, the only instruction Richard Castle offered the team earlier – other than to not get killed – was simple.

" _When this is over, the only thing I ask – well, don't get yourselves killed is the first thing,"_ he had told them, chuckling while keeping his arm immobile.

" _The second is this. No cops,"_ he had said, staring directly at Jennifer. _"I know you are with us, detective, and I am honored. But officially, you were never here. No warnings – no identifying yourself as a police officer."_

" _I don't understand,"_ the detective had questioned, but both Mike Monroe and Kate Beckett had nodded their heads simultaneously.

" _When this is over, the word will have gone out about this place here,"_ he tells them. _"That word will be one of two stories. One story will say that this place is clearly under police protection. The other story will say that this place can take care of itself, and doesn't need police . . . forgive me for saying this, Jennifer . . . this place doesn't need police interference. For the women we want to attract here, and for the men they are trying to escape from, that second story is far more powerful. Men who beat their women aren't afraid of a police response. If they were, they would take a different course. But those men will be scared shitless of the type of brutal response I suspect you people are capable of rendering. That's the story I want out in the city, in the Bay Area after tonight. If this goes down, tonight."_

Castle's request in her mind, Jennifer is unsure how to proceed. Fortunately, Kate immediately recognizes the quandary her friend struggles with this evening. She isn't that far removed from having to operate under those exact same parameters. Somehow, yelling out the words 'Police Officer, hold your hands in the air' doesn't seem to be the safest option tonight. She motions for them to split up, moving Jennifer twenty feet to her right. Nodding her head, Kate stays low, issuing a warning of her own, knowing the backup that she has.

"I don't think that is going to work, boys," Kate tells the two men. Their reaction – hilariously – is the stuff of a Hollywood comedy. Randy turns quickly, fumbling for his weapon. His quick movement, along with removed his hands from Benny's legs on top of him cause the crew chief to lose his balance. With a frantic leap, he grabs ahold of the center horizontal bar, but is now left dangling on the fence, his feet a good five to six feet off the ground.

"Hey, dammit!" he screams out, while Randy fires his weapon in the general direction of the voice he has heard. Fortunately, sticking to the plan, Kate has stayed low to the ground, as Randy's bullets whistle harmlessly some four feet above her head and ten feet to the side. His action, however, enables Jennifer to open fire without further hesitation. Two shots from the SFPD detective hit Randy squarely in the chest, and the hood slumps to his knees and falls forward.

"Wait! Wait a minute!" Benny yells, trying to turn and see who is behind him while maintaining his tenuous grip on the iron wrought fence bar.

Seconds later, Kate Beckett and Jennifer Blackard stand below him, Kate focused on Benny while Jennifer scans the area protectively.

"Got a name?" Kate asks with a smirk.

"Go fuck yourself!" Benny replies, more out of habit than bravado. He immediately recognizes his mistake as Kate begins to lift her weapon toward his head.

"No! No, wait minute, wait a minute, dammit!" he begins, bargaining for his life. "Benny. They just called me Benny."

"Well, Benny, here is the deal," she tells him. "I think it is apparent by now that this little raid of yours was a very bad idea," she tells him with a menacing smile. "And Benny, understand this. I don't like you. But I don't care about that. I don't care about your little raid here. I don't care about your other friends out there – who by the way – are getting slaughtered like lambs. All I care about is the women. The kidnapped women. Now, my friend here and I are on a tight schedule, as you can imagine."

She allows her weapon to graze along his leg, just adding a bit of tension to an already surreal moment. It's clear that Benny can only hang on for a few seconds more before he drops. He might break a leg, or at least severely sprain an ankle or knee. He doesn't look in the best of shape, but it's dark, so who knows.

"Tell me where the women are, Benny, and you get out of this alive," Kate tells him firmly. "Play stupid with me – even once – and I pull the trigger right here," she tells him, pointing her weapon at his knee cap and putting pressure there. "Then I ask the question again, and look for more interesting parts of your body to blow off. And don't give me any bullshit about Mexico, Benny. I'm not in the mood."

There is something about the tone of her voice, and the continued gunshots he hears in the distance, that tells him that this woman is deadly serious. It is a losing proposition. He will just have to take his chances with Donovan, because amid all of this carnage and loss of life – he is not going to take chances with this woman. Or her friend.

"Angel Island," he tells her.

"Where on the island, Benny?" Kate asks, already marveling internally that Castle had been right. The women were, indeed, on the island.

 **A/N:** Just a side-note. Military grade GPS today is supposedly accurate down to centimeters. This story occurs back in 2012, so I am assuming that the technology at that time with the military would be accurate within feet. Logic tells me that three years ago our military GPS was even more accurate than that – but for this story, a few feet was sufficient.


	24. Chapter 24

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 24**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 10:17 p.m. – At San Francisco General Hospital**_

Grayson Hamilton sits alone on the hospital table, her arms folded around her chest, rocking back and forth very slowly. Her eyes are glazed and red from crying. The drugs are starting to wear out of her system. The past month? That will take much longer. The emergency room is filled with forty-nine women – forty nine - who had long ago given up hope. Hope that they would be rescued. Hope that they would see their families again.

Hope that they would be granted the peace of death, escaping the hell that they had each fallen into.

Once Benny had given up the location, Jennifer had immediately gone into motion. The assault on the Castles Complex was over, successfully defended against by Mike Monroe's security force. The casualties were limited, with only Monroe and Dawn Harrison sustaining injuries, and both of their injuries were due to errant crossfire from the confused and retreating raiding party.

Rather than call the SFPD, Jennifer reminded the team that they – she specifically – wasn't really sure who could be trusted. Sure, Jennifer had a few she felt were above board – but now that they were this close to rescuing the women, she just couldn't take the chance.

The safer option had been to send a small detail made up of Jennifer, Kate Beckett, Colin Alexander and Marcus Duncan. The only addition to the detail was Channel 7 reporter Anna Roberts and her cameraman. The ABC-affiliate newswoman was a longtime friend of Jennifer's – one she was certain she could trust. Even so, she had the reporter and cameraman fly out to Castle's complex rather than directly to the island.

Yeah, complete trust was becoming harder and harder to come by.

The six had been flown onto the island via helicopter and dropped less than a mile away from the old barracks where the women were being held. Once in position, _then_ Detective Blackard had made the call back to her precinct. This way, if people suddenly came pouring out of the barracks, then she would know. For certain.

Marcus almost felt sorry for the detective when he noticed her crestfallen face when people – indeed – began the exodus from the barracks. Jennifer quickly composed herself as she stood in the lights of the camera, her arm held high exposing her SFPD police badge as she identified herself as a San Francisco police officer. Marcus and Colin quickly rounded up any who tried to run. Others were frozen in place, paralyzed by the assault rifles both men carried.

Anna Roberts found it difficult to maintain a steady voice as she reported – no mean feat for a woman with her credentials and field experience. Perhaps it was seeing the mayor's chief of staff walking out with her hands raised in surrender that did it for the seasoned reporter. Or the very recognizable face of the President of a large bank from the finance district. Either way, it was a who's who of power and politics that made its way out of the building. And every face, every step was documented by Anna for inclusion in tonight's newscast.

With roughly eighteen people sitting on the ground in a tight circle, arms above their heads while Marcus and Colin kept their rifles trained on the circle, Kate and Jennifer had gone inside, both wary of the house of horrors that would greet them there. Finding the women now accomplished, they took to task freeing the women.

A little more than an hour later, they now realize that will prove to be a far heavier undertaking, as both women stand in the doorway, observing Grayson Hamilton. The woman is . . . well, catatonic really is the best word to describe her state. There is no imagining the brutality these women have suffered through – some for the past months.

"What do you think?" Jennifer whispers to Kate.

"I think we should have killed Benny," Kate replies in a hushed tone, her eyes never leaving the young woman on the table.

"Trust me, Kate," Jennifer tells her old friend as she suppresses an involuntary shudder. "Handing him over to Willie Crockett as we did was a sentence far worse than death."

Kate glances at her friend who this time chooses to be the one zoned in on the young woman on the table.

"You don't want to know," is all Jennifer will add before walking slowly towards Grayson, her police badge clearly in sight.

"Your mother is on her way here, Grayson," she tells the woman. No response. She shakes her head, wondering if Kate is right, and they should have killed Benny anyway.

"She should be here in the next ten, fifteen minutes," Kate adds as she comes alongside the still uncommunicative woman. Both are careful not to touch her. Dr. Peraza had made that recommendation to them regarding any of the women they were able to rescue.

" _If at all possible, allow them to get out on their own without assistance unless they reach out to you,"_ Samantha had told the rescue strike team. Her advice – it turns out – is once again sound. Something as simple as a touch, a gesture could easily be interpreted the wrong way by the former captives.

Jennifer chooses this moment to leave the room and begin checking on some of the other women. Kate, however, stays put, standing alongside the young woman who continues to stare blankly ahead. For Kate and Castle, it all started with this young woman. So here she stays.

 _ **Tuesday Evening, February 21, 2012 – 10:39 p.m. – At Donovan's upscale home in San Francisco**_

"Dammit all to hell," an angry Donovan hisses as he launches his third glass of bourbon across the room into the waiting, shattering embrace of the opposite wall. Tonight has been a total disaster, as he has watched the teeth of a long-built organization left blowing on fickle winds. He has just watched the newscast. Nineteen bodies recovered from Richard Castle's safe campus for battered women out in Sausalito. All brutally killed. Castle himself – sporting a cast on his broken arm – had claimed that these men attacked the campus and were killed in self-defense, protecting the residents of the campus. The surveillance video supports his claims. An entire strike force eliminated – permanently.

"What the hell do you have out there on your little playground, Mr. Castle," he asks out loud, talking to himself. Clearly both he and Benny underestimated the response capabilities of the writer and his staff

The writer, for crying out loud! There is nothing in Castle's bio or background to suggest that he either has this mindset or has the military contacts to pull something like that. The ringing phone interrupts his tantrum. Donovan glances at the caller ID, and frowns. He doesn't have time for this. Still, there is no valid explanation why he wouldn't take her call – tonight of all nights.

"Hello, Madame Mayor," he greets her.

"Councilman Adams," Mayor Sandra Clooney returns his formal greeting with a smile, before becoming more personal. "Barry, have you seen the news this evening?"

"I doubt there is anyone in the city who hasn't seen this tonight," he says affably, regaining his composure. "Just the best possible news. I assume you have more information than what the media is telling us?"

"Nothing that I can share at this time, I'm afraid, Barry," she replies. "Like you I am just thrilled that we finally have found them – and they were _all_ alive Barry. _All_ of them"

"That's what I heard," he smiles falsely into the phone. "Again, just the best possible news. Not only do you get the press off your back, but you get the happy ending we all wanted. Just a fantastic night."

"I know, Barry, I know," she agrees, her joy barely contained. "My God, Barry did you hear how many women in total were recovered?"

"The newscast said forty-nine," he says affably. It kills him to say the number. Forty-nine women, captured from California and Nevada, all gone

"I'm calling you tonight because I am pulling our leadership council together in the morning. Can you be at my office at ten?"

"Ten it is, Sandra," he tells her. "I trust this will be a . . . happier meeting than last week."

"Decidedly," she promises. "Thanks Barry, I will see you in the morning."

"Oh, and Sandra," he adds as an afterthought. "I'm sorry about Bartlett."

"As am I, councilman," she replies, her jovial tone disappearing instantly. "However, she made her bed."

"That's a horrible pun, mayor," he tells her.

"Yes it is, Barry," she agrees. "Yes it is."

They hang up, and the fake smile that has been plastered on Barry's face quickly evaporates, replaced with the angry frown he has worn for the past hour. Not hearing from Benny was bad enough, telling him that the assault on the campus had gone badly. But the newscast? All of them dead? Well, nineteen bodies dead, and he does the math. There was Benny and his crew of fifteen, plus the backup in the car. That makes twenty. So one person survived.

Survived _and_ talked.

That person could only be Benny. Not one of his crew knew where the women were. That was by design. The fewer people who know, the more honest and truthful deniability that exists. That's his golden rule. If you don't want people to talk, don't let them know.

No, Benny was the only one who knew where the women were. The fact that the raid failed – and the women were rescued from the island within hours of each other is no coincidence. Benny talked. He will have to deal with Benny. Perhaps a call to Rodney will force Benny to the surface.

His mind now, however, returns to the more pressing issue. Sure, he got out of this unscathed – personally. His reputation has not been touched. In fact, the fact that the mayor's chief of staff was found out at the island actually makes him more attractive – from a trust factor – for the mayor.

"Ah Cynthia, you finally did something useful for me," he almost chuckles aloud.

The dismantlement of his little whorehouse on the island, his special place for special and powerful people, will cause a major stoppage of funds. With forty-nine women in his little stable, he has banked close to fifty million dollars in the past year. All for his war chest for his upcoming campaign fund for next year's elections.

His big brother – well, step-brother, God rest his soul – had taught him well, preparing him for the rigors of an election run. For years, the two brothers had looked forward to 'serving' their country together. Will had made the path to Senator, while younger brother Barry had opted for the congressional path.

"You, me, our children – we will be the Kennedy's of our generation," William Bracken had once said a few years ago. Barry had been born out of an affair that their father had enjoyed with one of his staff decades ago. The elder Bracken had sent the young woman away – a couple of hundred thousand dollars richer – to raise 'their' son on the west coast, far from his wife's prying eyes. Nine months later, the woman gave her maiden name of Adams to her newborn son, listing the father as unknown.

Years later, the elder Bracken orchestrated a meeting of his two sons, with Will just over five years older than his younger brother. The two brothers had hit it off well, aided and prodded along by talks of legacy from their father. The fact that Will had died late last year – under mysterious causes as far as Barry was concerned – only amplified his desire, his burning need to reach the halls of Congress.

"I've got more than enough," he says aloud, pouring himself another drink and sitting down on his large chair. "And now I have a worthy enemy, a worthy adversary as well. No coincidence that that you knew them well, brother," he says, glancing at the framed photograph of the two brothers on the coffee table.

"Is everything all right, Barry?" he hears from the doorway. His wife, Susan, leans against the door to his den. "I thought I heard something breaking in here."

"Bad day at the office, Susan," he says softly.

"I know dear, I know," she says, now entering the room and taking a seat next to hear husband. She is quiet for a few seconds, allowing him to think before she speaks again.

"We can always –"

"No, babe, we can't" he corrects her before she can finish. "It got blown all to hell tonight. Trying to put it back together is testing the universe. I think I have lost enough for one night."

She simply nods her head, and stands, straightening out her skirt.

"Then I am going to bed. I have an early morning."

"The drug awareness meeting?" he asks.

"Yep," she replies. "Don't be up late."

"I'll be there in a minute," he promises. She's a good wife. She understands the game, and plays it well. He could not have picked better.

His thoughts return to Richard Castle.

"Soon, Mr. Castle," he promises. "This is far from over."

 **A/N:** We have an epilogue next chapter, and then we are finished with this particular tale. I think we can be sure that – as City Councilman Barry Adams, nee Donovan states, this tale is only beginning. I thought it would be interesting to bring William Bracken – or a version of him – to the west coast. It took three stories to get here, but that sets the stage for future stories in this AU.


	25. Chapter 25

**A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 25**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Epilogue 1: Five days later**_

Benny groggily shakes his head, trying to snap out of the slumber he has been in. He panics for a moment realizing that he cannot see. And – his hands are cuffed in front of him. He feels around, and recognizes that he is on a bed of some type. More like a cot than a bed. He also realizes he is blindfolded.

He lifts his cuffed hands to his face, and pulls the blindfold off and away from his face. He is in a small dingy cell. The cell is roughly eight feet by eight feet, with a small two by two window about eight feet up the wall. The window has vertical bars that match the bars for a door. That's when the smell hits him.

"Well, well, the sleeping beauty awakens," a voice on the other side of the bars and just out of sight beckons to him.

"Who are you? And where am I?" Benny bellows, trying desperately to sound intimidating. He certainly is not used to being caged.

The man behind the voice steps into view. Benny's face goes ashen and he actually skips a breath and begins coughing.

"God Almighty," he whispers between coughs.

"Not even close," Sam Carlos replies with a smile – if one could call it that. "Although I am honored to be placed in that company," he continues, chuckling.

"Mr. Carlos," Benny begins, knowing that he has one chance to plead his defense. He has heard about these impromptu 'trials' that Sam Carlos occasionally presides over.

"Mr. Carlos, I don't know what you have heard, or what has been said, but I promise I have done nothing – _nothing_ – against you."

"Directly? No you haven't," Carlos agrees. "But you and I have a problem, Benny. Our problem is the women who were held on Angel Island. Women that you knew about. Women that you could have helped, but did not.

"Wait a second, Mr. Carlos, I didn't –"

"Benny, Benny," Carlos interrupts. "You need to be very careful what you say next."

Benny considers his options, and places his head in handcuffed hands and . . . and he begins to weep. This isn't how it was supposed to end. How it was supposed to turn out. He has a wife, a child. He is a criminal yes, but he is also a husband and father. Doesn't that count for something?

"I had the opportunity to speak with forty-nine women, Benny. I want that number to sink in with you. Forty-nine women. Forty-nine lives shattered. And you sat by and watched it happen."

Benny remains silent, save his quiet sobbing. He knows there is no defense that Sam Carlos will accept. Carlos' disdain for women as prostitutes is only surpassed by his contempt for the people who encourage or keep women in such a role.

"Forty-nine women, Benny. And for one unfortunate woman, she was held for 361 days. Mandy Elliot. She was nineteen years old, a year ago."

Carlos turns to the larger man who has joined him outside the cell, and begins speaking in Spanish.

"361 días. Es decir el tiempo que le va a mantener aqui, mi amigo."

He turns back to Benny, and translates for him. Your entire crew is dead, Benny. In some ways I believe you deserve to join them. But I also know you have a wife and a son. I . . . hesitate to orphan a child. So, for their sake, Benny, for their sake I will show you the mercy you have not shown others. You will stay here for 361 days. The same incarceration felt by Miss Elliot. You will leave this place a new man, Benny, just as she is a new woman today. Just as she was used sexually by predators – continuously – for 361 days, so, too, shall you."

The panic and fear on Benny's face almost . . . almost makes Sam reconsider. But he pictures the dozens of women he has spoken with in the past five days. It makes it all too easy.

"When your sentence is up, you will be a free man, Benny."

Carlos turns to the jailer and thanks him as he leaves.

"Gracias, mi amigo."

The larger man simply grunts, and spits on the cell floor a foot inside Benny's cell, and gives the former crew chief a leering, lecherous grin.

"Oh, and when I say free, Benny," Carlos concludes before he walks out of sight, "I mean you have to find your way home."

With that, Sam Carlos walks out of the cell area, and out of the building into the warm Mexico sunlight. He gazes down at Benny's wallet in his hand, containing the key documents Benny will need to get back across the border that is some fifty miles away.

He tosses them into the old and grimy trash can that sits outside the building, and walks briskly to the helicopter waiting for him some twenty yards away.

"Home, Junior Boy," he tells the large man sitting behind the controls once he gets inside. He closes his eyes, and begins whistling a tune from his younger days, before starting to hum the lyrics from the old Scorpions tune that was a party favorite.

 _Take me, to the magic of the moment,_

 _On a glory night_

 _Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams_

 _With you and me_

 _ **Epilogue 2: The next day back in San Francisco**_

It's just after midnight, and Jimmy Blankenship sits in silence, the fear totaling consuming him and rendering him speechless. He sits on the deck of the large cruising yacht, scared into submission by the three men on the craft. His hands are tightly bound in front of him with a rope. He has tried and tried and has made no headway with this damn infernal knot.

Jimmy was taken at gunpoint in his hotel. He had made it as far as Monterrey in the old truck, and was looking to stay off the radar. He has sent his daughter, Sydney, to his mother across the bay in Richmond for a couple of days. Sydney was only too happy to miss a couple of days of school.

He has been careful. No air flights, no credit cards. He isn't sure how these bounty hunters found him. But find him they did, and immediately took him to the cruiser that was anchored just a few hundred feet offshore.

Suddenly, from down below, however, a new face shows. One that he hasn't seen before. The face is tight and menacing. The man looks of Asian descent, probably Filipino, Jimmy figures. Not that it matters.

"Mr. –"

"Blankenship, Junior Boy," laughs one of the crew. "You forgot his name already?"

"Ah yes, Blankenship. Jimmy," Junior Boy chuckles. "I will get right to it. I know your wife closed out your account. Left you penniless. Ah, women, what are you going to do, am I right?"

The small crew laughs as the cruise up the Pacific Coast has been uneventful. Now, after a starboard bank, the reddish-orange arches of the Golden Gate Bridge come into view.

"Anyway, Mr. Blankenship, my employer felt that her actions were quite unfair," Junior Boy continues. "You worked very hard for your money, sir, and hard work should be rewarded."

The large man takes out a large suitcase, which he opens.

"Three hundred thousand dollars," Junior Boy tells him. "All in small bills, that will be easier to spend. That's about what your share was before your wife absconded with all of your monies. Not a nice woman, I must say."

He closes the suitcase and then sets it at Blankenship's feet.

"This belongs to you, sir," he tells a now very confused Jimmy Blankenship, smiling broadly. Compliments of Mr. Sam Carlos."

With that, the larger man suddenly whips out another rope, this one much shorter. He loops the rope through the suitcase handle and then quickly ties a strong knot around Jimmy Blankenship's ankles.

"Noooooo!" the former MUNI bus operator screams as he is lifted high overhead by the large man and tossed overboard. The weight of the suitcase does its job, pulling Blankenship beneath the frigid San Francisco waters.

"Who says you can't take it with you?" Junior Boy marvels aloud, to great laughter from the crew as they continue under the bridge, heading for the piers of Fisherman's Wharf.

 _ **Epilogue 3: Two weeks later in Mid-March, in San Diego, California**_

Mara Blankenship is content. For the past three weeks since the fiasco at Angel Island, she has been on the run. A quick trip to transfer all of their funds – save some fifty thousand in cash – to an offshore account was the only stop she made, as she hopped on a flight with a false ID and made it to Phoenix, Arizona. There, she had used a small portion of her cash withdrawal to buy a small car. Everything was handled under her new assumed name – Harper Marks. She just couldn't resist the irony of her selection, and smiles every time she has to pull out any identification.

New car under her feet, she had driven here to San Diego, where she has always wanted to live and retire in the first place. The first couple of weeks of retirement have been wonderful. She's not an unattractive woman, and has met a couple of men. But she's looking for the right one.

With the right bank account.

This afternoon she is shopping in Old Town, San Diego. She has just sampled a few drinks at a local restaurant and now is enjoying the spring breeze that blows through her recently dyed hair as she wanders from store to store in the marketplace.

"It's a beautiful day . . . a beautiful life," she thinks to herself as she picks up a souvenir trinket from the shelf, and inspects it before putting it back.

She smiles as she hears someone behind her whistling. She recognizes the tune, and starts humming along to herself, the lyrics to the song's chorus ringing in her head.

 _Take me, to the magic of the moment,_

 _On a glory night_

 _Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams_

 _With you and me_

 **A/N:** We will return to this AU soon. Thank you for all of you reading, following, favoriting and reviewing.

Paris is still on my mind and in my prayers.


End file.
